


The PL Dystopia AU

by Spadder101



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brainwashing, Character Death, Cutting off tongues, GOD THATS A LOT OF TAGS, Gunshot Wounds, I CANNOT BELIEVE CLAIRE DOESNT HAVE A NAMED TAG TBHHH, I FORGOT TO ADD TORTURE?, IF YOU WANT TO SEND A PROMPT IDEA FOR THIS THEN YOU CAN IM ON TRANS-CLIVE-DOVE ON TUMBLR, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kidnapping, LOOK IVE BEEN WRITING, Loss of Limbs, Mouth gore, Shooting Guns, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Vomiting, and GOD is it dark, i MIGHT also start posting my other AU stuff around and you can prompt for them, more tags will probs be added depending on what i write next, okay so this is literal hell, that black ravens tag, we'll soon find out if thats from a different fandom, what a fucking shithole man, who knows! not me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-03-16 11:32:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 23,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadder101/pseuds/Spadder101
Summary: "The Government is watching. You will do as you are told. There is no rebellion. Everything is normal. What we do is for the good of the people. Do not disobey. There will be punishments for those who do."A collection of all the things I've written for the dystopia AU for PL. I've posted it on Tumblr, and now I'll post it here. I'm on Tumblr as Trans-Clive-Dove, and my commissions are open! https://trans-clive-dove.tumblr.com/commissions there's my info page so check it out!!!





	1. FOREWARNING

**THESE ARE FOREWARNINGS FOR EACH CHAPTER. PLEASE PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.**

**Clive gets shot in the arm** : mentions of gunshot wounds and torture

 **Clive dies and tries to play it down** : mentions of death, gunshot wounds, kidnapping (and lying through your teeth to Luke)

 **Clive builds a new arm** : severing of limbs

 **Interference ft. Emmy** : mentions of brainwashing

 **Not dystopia but self indulgent destructive shit** : as it says, not dystopia, but mentions of death, mostly following canon

 **Clive “teen tantrum” Dove** : alcohol mentions, self harm, intrusive thoughts

 **Jeopardy! I’ll take tantrum for $100** : guns

 **Hey so is Randall dead or-** : mentions of death, guns, brainwashing, kidnapping

 **Teenboy Clive does a resistance** : self harm

 **OOoooogh Randall is a friend** : mention of brainwashing, kidnapping

 **Clive gets beaten up: the movie** : blood, knives, kidnapping

 **No Professor I’m not crying I’m just allergic to Clive’s death** : mentions of death

 **Mecha Dog** : mentions of death

 **I’m not under the akfluence of inkahol…** : alcohol, vomit, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of death, mentions of self harm,

 **EMMY TO THE RESCUE** : cuts, medical stuff (i probably got things wrong), mentions of alcohol, harm to children

 **Current status: suffering** : hallucinations, mouth gore, torture, acid burning, mentioned eye gore

 **HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUKE, SORRY EVERYONE'S DYING** : No warnings to apply.

 **FUCK YOU LEON BRONEV** : Mentions of torture, mentions of mouth gore, blood, guns, physical violence

 **WHY MUST WE BE IN PAIN AGAIN** : mentions of alcohol, knives, blood

 **LOOK ITS THIS BITCH AGAIN** : LOTS OF MENTIONS OF GUNS, mentions of alcohol, mentions of knives n stuff.


	2. Clive gets shot in the arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happening concurrently with "Hey so is Randall dead or-", Clive takes matters into his own hands to protect Luke, as he promised to do.

Clive knew all about what had happened with the stolen people. Henry, Luke, Claire… Clive blamed himself for letting Luke get caught. He’d said that he’d look after him. What took him by surprise was Luke’s return only a few days later, of course marred by what he could assume to have been torture marks. Burned patches on him, cuts, scratches… he was skittish, that was certain, and seemed very out of sync. Of course, since his return, Clive had doubled his efforts to look after the young boy.

He felt like a brother, and this resistance was the closest he had to family, and he wouldn’t let them slip through his fingers like his old family did. But… everyone was trying to protect Luke, now, after learning that the Government was after him. They probably thought he was weak, easy to make him talk… and everyone seemed to know that. Or, know that the Government thought it.

Clive also wasn’t the only person to realize the absence of a specific person. The leader of the Black Ravens, if he remembered correctly. Crow. Crow had disappeared, Luke had come back. There had to be a link.

And there was.

But Clive had no time to think on that.

“Luke was outside, he got split apart from Hershel, we don’t know where he is!” That was the panicked shouting Clive could hear.

Taking initiative, Clive made his way to the surface, immediately beginning to search for Luke. He couldn’t trust anyone with this task anymore. It was his and his alone, and he didn’t care if he got hurt- or killed, though he didn’t want that to happen- trying to protect him.

Clive found Luke surrounded by Government lackeys on what could be described as a crossroad. Without hesitation, Clive had run forwards, grabbing onto Luke from behind, pushing him backwards and standing in the way.

Likely, the Government lackeys hadn’t expected that to happen, and they hesitated. Clive took the few moments he had to push Luke back further, urging him to run.

“Go, Luke! I’ll fend them off long enough for you to escape!”

Luke was completely still for a moment, before only starting to step back. He didn’t seem to want to run, as if he didn’t want to leave Clive at the mercy of the Government. It made sense to Clive, actually- if that was what Luke was on about.

Instead, Clive stayed close to Luke, one arm wrapped around him protectively- his left arm, he was facing the Government side on, trying to protect most of his body with his right. They were moving as fast as they could, but clearly that wasn’t enough.

There was a loud bang, Clive felt Luke recoil and duck downwards, and at first, Clive wasn’t sure who’d been hit.

A sharp pain that spiked through his right arm and jolted his entire body told him, that it was he who had been hit. He almost screamed in pain, but instead ended up letting out a loud hiss, like escaping steam.

Of course, Luke had no idea what had just happened. He’d heard the bang, felt Clive jolt, and heard something that sounded pained, so he panicked. Grabbing onto Clive’s left arm, he began to pull the taller man along with him. 

Clive shut his eyes for a few moments, gritting his teeth, before opening them again, tearing his arm from Luke’s grip and clapping it to his own shoulder- he shouldn’t have done it so violently- and another spike of pain went through him. 

Luke looked back at him and continued to run. Clive followed as quickly as he could, not wanting to look behind him lest he see what would finally end him. He didn’t want to die here. On some levels, he didn’t want to die at all.

But he knew he might have to, and he’d be willing, if it were to save Luke.


	3. Clive dies and tries to play it down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another raid mission to retrieve the kidnapped members of the Resistance. Unfortunately, it doesn't end as planned.

Two groups had entered the Government building. One from the back, one from the side. A few people had stayed out front to keep their attention from those who were sneaking in. Hershel was taking a group to find the stolen rebels- a little bit of luck and Descole had found the exact area, so he knew where he was headed to, and Clive, having proven himself trust-able- and being a powerful ally with his mechanical arm- was taking a group to where the main heads of the Government would be.

 

Hershel had wanted Luke to come with him as it would have been less dangerous, however Clive had argued he didn’t want to let Luke out of his sight. That, and bringing Luke to the torture rooms was probably a terrible idea. Some part of Clive had wanted to keep Luke back, out of this.

 

Clive had made the group split into halves, one taking one way through the building, and one taking a different one. It was a safety measure, so if one group got caught, the other still had a chance.

 

Everyone had been given a gun. Even Luke, but he was hesitant to shoot it, and Clive understood why. This was a terrible thing to get involved in, and he was sure that Luke had never expected it to come to this. Clive, however, always had, and was trying his best to comfort him.

 

He wasn’t sure if it was working or not, and as they pushed further through the building, Clive could tell that Luke was terrified. He was shaking, holding tightly onto Clive’s blazer and almost whimpering.

 

Very distantly, Clive could hear gunshots. He hoped that everyone was okay. The group meant so much to him, as it was his family. He didn’t want to think about losing anyone.

 

Luke tugged sharply on his blazer, and Clive crouched down. Somehow, he and Luke had ended up split apart from their group- Clive had meant that to happen. He was going to take down Bill Hawks, and if he died doing it, then so be it.

 

He still didn’t want that to be his end, though.

 

“Clive, we’re on our own…” Luke whispered to him, glancing around fearfully.

 

“It’s okay, Luke. I know the way forwards.” Clive smiled to Luke, before gently leading him along. 

 

The two were staying very close to the floor. So far, Clive hadn’t seen anyone he’d have to shoot. He assumed that everyone had been moved to lower levels to protect the stolen rebels. He very much doubted they knew that the rebels were coming to end this.

 

Clive could see the room that Bill was in, now. There was a short moment where Clive had to contain himself from running in at that moment, but he knew he had to find places where he and Luke could hide. Places where they’d be protected from gunfire. 

 

“Luke, do you want to go in with me?” Clive turned to Luke, who was still shaking.

 

“I-I should stay with you.”

 

“It’ll be dangerous. I don’t want you hurt.”

 

“I’ll be fine. L-lets go.”

 

Clive held Luke’s hand, and burst through the door, pointing his gun forwards and shooting at Bill, who was sat behind a desk. Bodyguards were surrounding him- Clive knew that- and Clive quickly dived for cover.

 

“Pass me your gun, Luke.”

 

Luke handed his pistol to Clive, who held it along with his own. With both pistols ready, Clive came out of cover again, shooting at the bodyguards. He’d moved across the room, hiding himself behind something else, now.

 

He wondered where the group was.

 

His grip on the pistols tightened, and he came back out, shooting more. Then, he stopped. He was out of bullets. He felt something hit around his guts somewhere, and he got back into cover, gripping where he had felt something. It was a little wet, and he wasn’t entirely sure why.

 

Through the door came half of his group, all shooting at whoever was part of the Government. When it ceased, there was a slight cheer from the rebels who were stood without a single scratch.

 

Luke made his way past the group, over to Clive. As the rest of the group came in, they began to look around for things, sending some people back as messengers to Hershel’s group.

 

Those left in the room were chattering to each other quietly, but Clive could make out vague words. Things such as “Did anyone see Bronev on the way up? Do you think Hershel has to deal with him?” and “Should we send more people down?”

 

Clive had leant himself against the wall, and his grip on his guts had tightened. Something  _ definitely _ hit him.

 

“Clive, are you okay?” Luke was crouched in front of him.

 

“Just fine, Luke.” Clive smiled. “Yourself?”

 

“Didn’t get hit.”

 

“I think you should go with some of the others down to the Professor. He’s likely worried about you.”

 

Luke paused. “I heard they were bringing the Professor up when he’d gotten everyone out.”

 

“Then we’ll wait.”

 

Luke nodded, but found himself being urged to look around the room as well, for anything that might be of use. Clive took the time to look down at his injury. Sure enough, there was a gunshot wound that was oozing blood. He felt a little lightheaded looking at it- or was he running out of blood?

 

Clive groaned softly, looking at the blood that was now dripping between his fingers. God- it wouldn’t be easy to hide that from Luke.

 

Hershel came through the door with his group, as well as the three rebels, who looked very much worse for wear. Crow was being lead around by someone from the Black Ravens- was it Badger? Clive couldn’t remember. Henry was trying desperately to communicate with someone, but he didn’t appear to be able to speak, and Claire was holding Hershel’s hand, and- looking straight at Clive.

 

He wondered what had happened. Claire let go of Hershel, walking over to Clive and crouching in front of him and pointing to his hand- the bloody one, of course. Slowly, Clive mouthed,

 

“Don’t tell Luke.”

 

Claire frowned at him, moving his hand. Of course, with Claire going over to him, Hershel had followed.

 

“Clive, what happened?” Hershel had seen the blood.

 

“N-nothing! Just nothing. I’m fine, really. You should focus on other people, not me.” Clive tried to flash a grin, but the pain was getting a little unbearable now.

 

Hershel wasn’t taking that as an answer, so Clive spoke again.

 

“I’m okay, really. I’ll be fine. It’s not that bad.”

 

Was it that obvious he was playing it down? He felt like his body was on fire. Clive refused to look down at it, because he felt sick. He felt sick to his stomach, and he wasn’t sure what he could possibly do to end the pain.

 

He wasn’t entirely sure what Hershel did next, nor Claire. His vision blurred a little too much, and everyone’s voices seemed to slur. He couldn’t pick out words, but he could still just about pick up distinct shapes of people.

 

It almost felt as if he was crying, and maybe he was.

 

He was in so much pain, and yet…

 

“I’m fine… trust me…” his voice was getting a little breathy now, and he was struggling to stay conscious.

 

He felt bone tired. Clive just wanted to relax himself, to close his eyes and sleep. He guessed this was what dying felt like.

 

He was dying for this cause, like he knew he might have to. It felt okay to die for that. And so, Clive muttered once more,

 

“I’m fine.”

 

And closed his eyes.

 

Luke had come back over as Clive lost consciousness, and he looked wide eyed between Clive and Hershel.

 

“Professor?! Is he- he said he was okay!”

 

Hershel moved slightly, picking up Clive’s unconscious form and standing straight again. “We have to get him back quickly.”

 

As the Resistance made its way out of the building, Hershel began to worry more. Clive’s breathing was uneven and shallow, and truly he wasn’t sure if they would make it back in time to save Clive. What would they even do? He had a bullet firmly in his guts- he’d only bleed out. It was a slow and painful death that they’d subject him to.

 

Hershel thought- though bittersweet as it was- at least Clive was unconscious. That meant he wouldn’t have to feel the pain of dying.


	4. Clive builds a new arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his right arm stops functioning- from being shot- Clive needs a new arm, and only he knows what he can build into it.

After taking a shot to his arm protecting Luke, Clive found that his arm completely  _ refused _ to move. It wouldn’t even twitch when he tried to do anything! He’d had enough of it by this point, and it had only been a day or so. Of course, only a few people had noticed how his right arm was always sat limply by his side, but no one had asked about it.

 

The fact that no one was paying attention to him made it easier to get metal, wiring, whatever he needed. He had limited knowledge of biology- where the nerves were, the veins too, in his arm- but that didn’t…  _ entirely _ matter. He could work that out later. He’d ask someone about it. For now he was focusing on making himself a  _ new _ arm. A better one.

 

It would be mechanical. The wires would pass nerve impulses- he needed something to sit as a join between his body and where his arm should be- and it would look cool as fuck. He was messing around with concepts- he couldn’t draw them, unfortunately, as he was right handed- but he had thought about it enough.

 

He hoped.

 

Clive had begun from the inside out, first working on the wires, the rotating joint for the elbow… how long had he been awake? A while at this point.

 

It took him many days, and he was very happy with the result. He’d even built the connecting joint to go onto his body, but now he had more problems than before.

 

He’d need to take off his arm.

 

Now, that didn’t sound at  _ all _ fun. Besides, how would he be able to take off his arm  _ and _ attach the connecting joint without bleeding out almost instantly. He’d need to ask someone for help. So, Clive left his room after many days of basically isolating himself, and went looking. 

 

Well, who would help him? Luke was too young. He didn’t want to force him to see that. The Professor? Perhaps, but he was still a little out of it from Claire’s disappearance- her kidnapping- though it had been weeks now. Emmy- was that her name?- Clive didn’t really trust her. Something seemed off about her, always.

 

Who was that man with the white mask… he knew a lot about mechanics, didn’t he? What was his name…

 

Well, he didn’t need to know his name. He just had to find him, and he seemed to be around the Professor often… so Clive went to the Professor’s area in the base.

 

“Professor?” Clive knocked on the door before opening it, seeing Hershel sat at his desk, drinking tea. “I’m looking for-”

 

“Luke hasn’t gone missing, has he?” Hershel turned immediately, and Clive shook his head.

 

“No, no! I wouldn’t let that happen- I was actually looking for the man with the white mask who you talk to often.”

 

“Oh, Descole?”

 

“If that’s his name.”

 

“He said he’d be in the scrap pile looking for salvageable metal. I hope that you can sort out what reason you have to ask for him.”

 

“I’m sure I’ll be able to. Thank you, Professor.”

 

Clive left the Professor’s room, heading down to the scrapheap. Once he’d reached there, he found Descole with a bag full of metal- he assumed.

 

“Descole?”

 

Descole looked across to him, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“I need your help with something.”

 

He frowned. “I’ll need more than that.”

 

“I refuse to explain it here.”

 

“Then I refuse to help you.”

 

Clive grit his teeth for a moment, letting out a sharp sigh. “I’m going to cut my fucking arm off and I need you to attach a specific connector joint I’ve built in the next few moments or I will bleed out and  _ die. _ Are you going to help?”

 

Descole stopped, standing up straight from where he’d been. “You’re going to what?”

 

“You heard me.”

 

“Well then. Where to?”

 

“Follow me.”

 

Clive left with Descole in tow, leading him up to his room.

 

“So how are you going to take your arm off?” Descole leant down slightly so no one else would hear him.

 

“I have a cleaver. Will that work?”

 

“Only if you put enough force behind it. Maybe I should do the cutting and you do the placement of this ‘connector joint’, since you built it.”

 

Clive hummed a single note, before nodding. “Alright.”

 

Descole went into Clive’s room first, picking up the cleaver and checking it’s sharpness. It was  _ very _ sharp. Clive closed the door behind him, picking up the connector joint and standing in front of the door, his right arm still limp. He just about managed to take off his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, making sure that where he needed to be hit was visible.

 

“Alright Descole. I need you to hit  _ exactly _ here. I’m trusting you.” he pointed to the exact part where his arm joined his chest. “Go whenever you’re ready.”

 

Descole nodded, standing in front of him with the cleaver in his right hand. He spun it once, before he swung. The cleaver went  _ straight _ through Clive’s arm and embedded itself into the door, spattering Clive, Descole and the door in blood. The shock of it jolted Clive, and he almost let go of the connector joint, but quickly pulled himself away from the cleaver- it was stuck in the door at this point- and went to attach it. He was bleeding a  _ lot _ .

 

Clive had connected it just about perfectly. The small tubes that would push the blood back around to where they were supposed to be were in the right place, the wires were pressed against his nerves- it felt a little uncomfortable and he shivered at it- before he stopped.

 

He looked away from his arm- which was currently on the floor- and picked up the metal arm, attaching it to the connector joint. Then, he flexed his hand.

 

It worked.

 

Clive started to test it out a little more, first testing how much it could move, how fast, and then testing what he had installed. A few small rockets, the knife function on his fingers… all that.

 

Descole wrenched the cleaver out of the door, placing it back down on the desk.

 

“Thanks for the help, Descole.” Clive smiled to him.

 

“If you can build something like that, then anytime.”

 

Clive picked up his arm and Descole left, eyeing the hole in the door before closing it behind him. Now, Clive wasn’t sure what to do with his severed arm, but he knew it would start rotting if it wasn’t preserved, or… something. He’d get rid of it.

 

...somehow.


	5. Interference Ft. Emmy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen to your orders. Follow them justly. Don't think for yourself. We can handle everything.

Follow Targent. Follow Targent’s orders. It could be so much worse if you don’t. That’s what Emmy was always told. Amidst the sharp tones and pictures she was subject to on a daily basis was orders that she followed without question. It was a regular occurrence. The buzzing and bleeping was just a sign she had woken up, or that she was still alive.

 

Better to know she was still alive and following orders than for the tones to stop. She never commented about how piercing they were, how much her head hurt some days, she didn’t want anyone to know about it.

 

Don’t be a burden. Follow orders, or it’ll get worse.

 

That’s all Emmy was set to believe, and that was all she’d believed.

 

It was a normal day. Normal enough, she supposed. There seemed to be a commotion near Hershel’s room, so, she went to investigate. Without any context, she understood only a little.

 

“Don’t worry, it’s just my arm.” that sounded like Clive’s voice.

 

“ _ Just  _ your arm?!” now that was definitely Luke.

 

“Just my arm, Luke, but look!”

 

Emmy turned the corner right as Clive pulled up his blazer sleeve, revealing a metal right arm.

 

“Back and better than before!”

 

Suddenly, the noise cut out in Emmy’s ear. She couldn’t see the images, and for once in so, so long, she could think clearly.

 

“What’s that, Clive?” Emmy walked towards the two, and Clive flashed a brazen smile.

 

“My arm! After I got shot protecting Luke, I needed a new one. So, I made one.”

 

Emmy wasn’t sure what to do. The frequencies weren’t playing. She couldn’t see the images. What was she supposed to do? Whose orders did she follow?

 

No one’s.

 

It felt good to not have the notes in her ears, the constant buzzing and flashing and pulsating of images stopping her from doing what she wanted to do. For the first time in a while, Emmy felt as if she were free. Lifted of a burden.

 

She’d have to get rid of those earpieces. They were hurting her.

 

Fuck Targent. Fuck their orders. Things could be so much better without them.


	6. Not dystopia but self indulgent destructive shit

Clive had surrounded himself with fire, always. Ever since he lost his family, he’d turned to fire. It burned things, it destroyed what was in its way. It was unstoppable. That’s how he wanted to feel, unstoppable and destructive, bringing justice and being the doom of the government that had wronged him.

 

Fire was uncontrollable, unpredictable, unpleasant.

 

Clive hated it.

 

It was a strange situation for him. He wanted to be the fire, but he hated the fire. It reminded him of the explosion. Of the day he lost everything.

 

Fire took everything from him.

 

And now, it would take him.

 

The top of the Mobile Fortress was burning, and Clive was going to go with it. The entire fortress was destroying itself, and was enveloped in fire, and Clive had given up all hope of getting out. He stood amidst the flames, feeling them lash at his legs. 

 

When Celeste had ran through the burning fortress and grabbed hold of him, hurling him out the window, Clive had no time to react. He felt himself hit against something metal, and someone grab onto his arm, pulling him onto something soft. Celeste had soon followed, landing almost beside him.

 

He was still dazed, blinded by the sudden transition from burning light to a cool darkness, and he tried to sit up. Unfortunately, the heat  _ had _ gotten to him, and his hands felt as if they were blistering. He was kind of stuck where he… lay, he supposed. He felt like he was on his back, but honestly? His back was burning just as much as the rest of him, and it didn’t really feel like he was on anything but hot coals.

 

“Is he alright?”

 

“He looked like he was on fire in the fortress, but I think it’s been put out. I’m not sure how he is right now. He might be conscious, might not.”

 

Clive tried to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse groan, followed by a bout of coughing. It  _ hurt _ .

 

“Are you awake, Clive?”

 

He looked up, and Celeste was leant over him, looking over him for any injuries. For a few seconds, Clive was filled with unstoppable rage. He sat up, and moved himself as far away from her as he possibly could, ignoring the pain he was in.

 

“Why did you bother saving me?!” he snarled. “You should have left me to die!”

 

“Now Clive, you know we weren’t going to leave you to die. You don’t deserve to die, no matter what you’ve done.” it sounded like Hershel was talking.

 

“You’re wrong!” Clive now turned to the front seat, despite knowing Hershel couldn’t see him. “I  _ do _ deserve to die. What have I done aside from try to doom London with my want for justice? Nothing!”

 

“It’s not about what you’ve done anymore, Clive. It’s about  _ why _ you’ve done it. That’s what should be focused on.” Celeste shook her head at him, and he turned back to her.

 

His anger was ebbing away, replaced with a gnawing guilt.

 

“But it won’t be focused on. The media never focuses on that. They’ll paint me as a madman. A justice-fueled madman. Maybe that’s all I am.”

 

“No, Clive. You had every reason to want justice. Of course our voices will be silenced, but who’s more trustable, a corrupt politician who quashes the media or a gentleman well known by many?”

 

“I don’t know. Who knows what Bill’s capable of? Didn’t he completely snub your investigation into Claire’s death, into the explosion, Professor?”

 

“He… may have played some part in it, yes.”

 

“ _ May have _ ?! Professor, he quite obviously hired someone to stop you from getting to the bottom of it. There aren’t any detailed records  _ anywhere _ , believe me. I checked everything that had passed through the media from that date, and there was  _ nothing _ .” Clive shook his head and looked down, punching the chair he was sat on. “I  _ hate _ it! I feel incomplete without knowing what truly happened- without having the final word! Without having justice for what was done to me!”

 

Before he knew it, he was crying. He felt lightheaded, too- the pain must’ve been getting to him again.

 

“I was  _ twelve _ , Professor. Twelve years old. Now look at me. A criminal. Painted terrible by the media, my motives-” Clive air-quoted.  _ “Unknown!” _

 

He scoffed at that. “What a joke!”

 

Then, one of his hands traced up into his hair and pulled on it. “Just like everything I’ve done!”

 

“No, Clive. You’re not a joke.”

 

“ _ Really? _ Tell that to everyone else then. Give me half a reason not to jump straight from the Laytonmobile  _ right _ now. I want you to tell me what little redeeming qualities I have that make you  _ care _ so much about me!”

 

“Simply the fact that you’re  _ you _ is a redeeming quality. Clive, you’re a better person than you think.”

 

Hershel glanced into the wing mirror, and Clive appeared to be slumped on the chair, unmoving.

 

“He’s passed out, Hershel. He’s probably gotten terrible burns from being stood in the fire for so long.”

 

“I’ll put in as many good words as I can. He’ll need time to recover, even if he does end up in jail.”

 

“When he wakes up, tell him that I’m sorry for what happened.”


	7. Clive “Teen Tantrum” Dove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive never understands his own emotions and likes to drink them away. Unfortunately, this doesn't help when he needs to work on things. Or when you get visited by an old friend.

Clive had to admit, he felt very strong emotions almost constantly. Many verged along in what would be described as “anger” and included things such as “undying rage”, “I feel like I’m burning from the inside” and “I’m not doing enough and have to do more.” Each of these sort of happened at once, and so Clive was always bubbling with emotion, ready to tick over at any time. He found it a godsend that he didn’t end up snapping often. He could hide his emotions easily behind something superficial most of the time- his entire existence, really.

 

Unfortunately, this wasn’t one of those times.

 

“If one more _fucking_ thing goes wrong, I am going to _flip my fucking shit._ ” he growled to himself, walking through his sector.

 

He’d heard so much crashing, shouting- he almost wanted to tear his own hair out. Subconsciously, he balled his fists, gritting his teeth as he continued through his sector. _Fuck_ did he wish he had some way to get emotions out aside from snapping and punching and- hurting himself.

 

People hadn’t noticed the claw-like marks that ran down his left arm. Admittedly, no blood had stained his shirt, nor his blazer- which he was wearing more like a cloak, a pin holding it up by his neck- so no one had any reason to notice.

 

But apparently his temper was easy to notice.

 

Short, snapping sentences? Hunching ever so slightly? The vague signs of grit teeth, the scowl… Clive had it all. However, only one person had noticed so far.

 

It was the smell on Clive’s breath that gave it away. Well, that and the strange smell in his tea.

 

Hershel had noticed it a few days ago, but said nothing. The first time he’d smelt it, he simply thought that Clive had made his tea a little wrong, but upon noticing Clive unresponsive towards the difference made Hershel think that it smelt strange on purpose. Something Clive had done made it smell strange, but Hershel couldn’t entirely place _what_ was strange about it.

 

Clive seemed to relax a little more when he drank, but he sometimes became more emotional, or more boisterous. He became fueled by whatever he’d suppressed, be it emotion, actions or words. That normally happened when he drunk too much.

 

Hershel had decided to go and visit Clive, having finally recognised the smell.

 

_Alcohol._

 

However he’d done it, Clive had managed to find enough alcohol to sustain himself for a while now. He wasn’t sure how much Clive was drinking a day, but by the smell, he guessed it must have been a lot.

 

Clive had laid down on his bed, trying to stop the violent thoughts that were bubbling to the surface.

 

“Stupid fucking weak idiot!” he slammed his hands against his bed, letting out a hiss. “Can’t do half a job right!”

 

There was a soft knock at the door, and Clive had half the mind to stay silent. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop himself.

 

“What!”

 

It didn’t even sound like a question, and whoever was outside seemed to hesitate for a moment, before opening the door a crack.

 

“Clive?”

 

Clive groaned, sitting up slightly. “What, Professor.”

 

“I came to check on you. I’ve noticed you seem a little more on edge recently, and I-”

 

“On edge is one hell of an understatement, Professor, but at least you’ve fucking noticed.” Clive dropped himself back onto the bed, before groaning again, this time in pain. “Can’t be said for the rest of this fucking sector, nor your own sector.”

 

“Ah. Clive, I appreciate that, however I’d like to know why you’ve turned to…”

 

Clive almost sneered. “Drinking? Wondered when you’d catch on.”

 

Hershel finally walked into the room, closing the door behind him and looking at Clive. He had one hand gripping tightly to something in his pocket, and his right arm was kind of stuck out to the side.

 

“Clive, why have you turned to drinking?”

 

“When _haven’t_ I, Professor? _Anything_ goes _mildly_ wrong and you bet I have a bottle of something in my hand. Something _strong._ ”

 

Hershel almost asked two things at once, but ended up saying nothing.

 

“Lost for words, _Professor?_ I can’t say I’m surprised. I’d be at a loss if I were you.” Clive hummed a single note, tilting his head slightly so he could look Hershel. “I don’t believe I’ve been entirely sober for about three days now.”

 

“You’re forming awfully coherent sentences for a drunk man.”

 

“I’ve drunk an awful lot for my age. It’s nothing new.”

 

“I’m sure there must be some other way to deal with your emotions aside from drinking, Clive.”

 

“Rich coming from you, Professor.”

 

Hershel didn’t even flinch. “That’s true, but my problems can wait. What’s on my mind right now is helping _you_ , Clive. I would appreciate it if you worked with me.”

 

“You _know_ I’ve been nothing but awkward. I’m useless. I’m a useless drunk who’s wasting time, space, money… and most importantly, lives.” Clive stood up, starting to pace the room.

 

“How are you wasting lives-?”

 

“Time waits for no one, Professor. The longer we lie in wait, the more the Government has over us. They’re scouring the city, Professor. How long do you think we have, _Professor?_ I, for one, think we have as little time as you’d expect, _which is_ **_none!_ ** ” he’d turned to Hershel, motioning angrily.

 

“Clive, for god's sake, _pull yourself together!_ ” Hershel shouted.

 

He hated getting angry.

 

Clive _flinched_ as Hershel shouted, actually backing himself away for a moment. He shuddered only slightly, before something other than anger came to surface. Clive wasn’t sure if it was terror or sadness. Something about what Hershel had said struck a terrible chord in Clive, and he wasn’t… entirely sure why.

 

His legs felt weak. He felt sick, and he found himself collapsing to his knees, one hand covering his mouth, the other arm trying to hide his face. For a few seconds, Clive was aware of the fact that he was crying. Then, the fear and sickness merged into a more extreme anger. Clive moved his hands away from his face, but stayed on his knees. Instead of moving, or doing anything violent, he just sat there, seething, almost snarling at himself and keeping his eyes focused on the floor.

 

He knew if he looked up he might end up losing control, and he _certainly_ didn’t want to hurt Hershel.

 

Hershel didn’t move. He was waiting for Clive to make any motion of being okay, because he seemed like he was ready to react at any moment.

 

“...are you alright, Clive?” Hershel’s voice was soft, and Clive found himself looking up slightly.

 

“Just fine.” he spoke through grit teeth. “Give me a moment or two.”

 

Clive swallowed loudly, before standing up, still looking to the floor. He didn’t want Hershel to see him crying for a _second_ time.

 

Hershel, however, had already walked towards him, stretching his arms out and offering a hug. Clive’s little glance was all Hershel needed to see that he was experiencing worse emotional turmoil than before, and something that he’d said triggered that.

 

Clive simply shook his head. It was only softly, but enough for Hershel to notice, and he let his hands fall back to his sides.

 

“I need some time to myself.” Clive sighed. “Get back to your sector, I’m sure somebody’s looking for you by now.”

 

Hershel nodded and went to leave, but stopped himself before opening the door.

 

“I care about you, Clive. Please look after yourself.”

 

Clive was silent, so Hershel left his room, closing the door behind him. Clive had paused for a while, thinking back on the conversation and how violent it had become before turning back to something seemingly… calm.

 

“I wish I could believe you, Professor…” Clive mumbled to the door. “I wish I could believe that anyone cared about me, but I know it to be untrue.”

 

Clive had taken something from his pocket- a silver hip flask, shaking it slightly. Still half full. With a low hiss, Clive threw it onto his desk and began pacing his room again.

 

“What I said about myself is true. I’m a waste of many resources… but there’s no shortage yet. If we’re not fast enough, there will be.” Clive stopped, shaking his head. “I won’t let it get to that. _I’m_ taking over planning, now. We need action _now._ ”


	8. Jeopardy! I’ll take tantrum for $100

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive goes on yet another tantrum, and this time, it doesn't jeopardize the mission.  
> That's a first.

Clive had planned this fucking mission, and now the people that had been sent on it thought that  _ they _ knew better than him? It was unbelievable, and Clive was finding it hard to control himself from bursting out in anger. He didn’t even  _ know _ the people on the mission, bar for one, which was Descole!

 

Now, of course… Descole knew that Clive had planned the mission, and was trying to follow his orders as well as he could, but some no-face had been set as the leader, and Descole could see that Clive wasn’t at all happy about that.

 

This was a very important part of the mission. It required a certain amount of skill, manipulation of things around everyone, and most importantly, a distraction. One group was supposed to go left, one group right, and one distraction was supposed to go straight forward through the stretching corridor. Clive knew that. He’d planned this damn mission, after all.

 

The leader of the mission  _ did not. _

 

“We’ll split into thirds. One group left, one right, one forward. I don’t know about the map of this place, but I’m sure we’ll meet at the end.”

 

Everyone nodded, bar Clive.

 

“You’re wrong.” Clive spoke up. “I  _ know _ that there’s no meet-up point at the end of this corridor.”

 

“Oh, really. How do you know that?”

 

“I made this fucking plan you  _ imbecile. _ ”

 

“Oh, then what do you suggest, Mr I-Made-This-Plan?”

 

“Half the group. One left, one right. One person acts as a decoy and goes down the corridor.”

 

“And dies?”

 

“Better than a third of our group dying.”

 

The leader shook his head. “No. We go with my plan.”

 

Clive was barring on seething. “Do you really want to be the cause of the resistance’s failure?”

 

“You’ll be the cause if you don’t listen to my fucking orders.”

 

By now, Clive had had enough. He’d pulled his pistol from its holster, and moved from crouching to standing, before starting to run down the corridor. There was a shout of confusion behind him, but he continued to run. With the pistol in his left hand, Clive made sure he was able to shoot anyone to his left- the side he  _ predicted _ would have the most people on it.

 

Honestly, because of the sheer rage he was feeling, he wasn’t even certain if he’d know if he was hit. That didn’t matter, as soon he noticed someone else had joined him. A flowing cloak told him that it was Descole, taking the right side.

 

“They said you’re jeopardizing the mission, but I know you’re more likely to know what you’re doing!” Descole glanced at Clive, before shooting at someone.

 

Clive nodded slightly. “I am just so  _ fucking _ angry at that leader. I’m so goddamn pissed off. I’d shoot him if I didn’t know I’d get punished for it.”

 

“I’d back you up.”

 

“Doesn’t fucking matter who backs me up or not, if I shoot a man on our side then I’ll be thrown into the streets again! I can’t have that.” Clive was reloading as fast as he could.

 

Descole glanced behind him, seeing that the group had indeed disappeared. “I only hope they followed your orders.”

 

“That or they’ve run. I don’t even care if I die this time! I’ve had enough of trying to work with uncooperative people! If I had any status I’d make sure I worked with people  _ better _ than them!”

 

“Dullards, the lot of them. Too far up their own ass to- duck!”

 

Clive, instead of ducking, tripped over himself, tumbling forward at the same speed he’d been running. Apparently it was enough as Descole shot at whoever was to his side and dragged him back to his feet, pushing him forwards so he could run ahead.

 

“You reloaded?”

 

“Yeah! How are you doing for-”

 

“Need to reload- you go ahead, find cover!”

 

Clive nodded to Descole, running ahead and crashing through the door at the very end of the corridor, diving behind some cover. There was a sudden burst of sound coming from all directions- Clive assumed it was gunfire- and Clive found himself hiding a little more behind whatever he was by.

 

People began to go for the door- Government lackeys, all with guns. Clive found it easy now to just shoot them in the head, taking out many of them quickly. Well, until one of them noticed him. Soon, Clive was backed up to the wall, no bullets in his gun, and basically trying to come to terms with the end.

 

Then, the lights flickered slightly. There was a loud sound as someone else entered the room, and gunshots ensued- none of which hit Clive. The lights continued to flicker until they completely turned off, and Clive felt someone grab his arm.

 

“Come on- they’ve done it! They didn’t run!”

 

That was Descole’s voice.

 

“Right!”

 

Clive and Descole started to make their way back down the corridor, Clive holding a torch in his left hand so they knew where they were going. Though he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d done it, Clive had managed to fix the whole mission simply by running.

 

As the two halves of the group merged in behind them, Clive heard a voice shouting.

 

“You two could have jeopardized the whole mission! This could have been a total failure!”

 

“It would have been if we hadn’t run!” Descole turned back slightly, before focusing ahead again. “Clive wrote the plan after all- he knew what he was doing!”

 

“And you’re saying  _ I  _ didn’t?!”

 

“Of  _ course _ you didn’t you fucking idiot! You didn’t even know the map of this fucking place! Like  _ you _ were going to lead us to victory!” Clive rolled his eyes, though he knew no one else could see in the darkness.

 

Once the group had broken back out into daylight, they scattered, each taking different routes back to base. Descole stuck around with Clive.

 

“I’ll need your help with something when we get back, if that’s alright?”

 

“Hm?” Clive looked up. He’d been so focused in his own thoughts he hadn’t even noticed that Descole was following his route. “What is it?”

 

“Well, Azran torture methods focus mainly on what pain they can inflict to the body without destroying it. I think I’d like to mechanise my body to stop that.”

 

Clive was already nodding before he’d entirely registered what Descole had said. “Wait-”

 

“I’m sure it’ll be easy. A strong outer carapace of sorts to hold everything in- wires and the like, just like you have in your arm… I’m asking you because you know more than anyone else in the resistance. Sound good?”

 

“Good? Perhaps not, but… I am curious as to how you’ll do it. Fine. I’ll help you.”

 

“Terrific. We’ll get started as soon as we get back.”

 

Clive still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to that.


	9. Hey so is Randall dead or-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Randall dead? Is he not? And if he's not, then what are the government doing to him?

Angela had always tried to keep close tabs on Randall, knowing exactly how impulsive he could be. If he wasn’t watched, he’d likely go out and do something dangerous. The last thing anyone wanted was him getting killed.

 

Unfortunately, Angela couldn’t pay attention to him all the time.

 

Randall liked to go out into the streets whenever he could- in his flowing white suit and with mask on, of course, so they didn’t recognise him- and graffiti the place. Only one person had noticed him leave, and of course, they immediately told Angela. 

 

She had run out into the streets, trying to find any trace of Randall, in the hopes that she could get him back to safety before the Government found him.

 

He’d been spraying in white, spread angel wings across a wall. The art was beautiful, and as he sprayed, he admired. He wished he had wings as such, so he could fly away whenever he needed. Maybe someone would be able to create a mechanical version of them?

 

Randall liked that thought. 

 

Once the wings were done, he started to work around it. He sprayed a crown just above the wings where, if someone his size were to sit against the wall, it would appear to be on their head. Around that, all sorts. There were streams of gold, like beams of light, coming from the wings. There were dashes of red about the crown, and by the time it was done, Randall was highly pleased. He stood a couple paces away, admiring his work.

 

Then he heard the click of a gun behind him.

 

“Citizen! You are defacing Government property, and are a certified member of the Resistance. You will submit!”

 

Randall turned quickly, putting one foot back, as if he were ready to run.

 

He wasn’t sure how far he might get.

 

“Submit!”

 

Randall still refused to do anything, so, they shot.

 

He felt it hit just beside his shoulder, between his collar and his actual shoulder bone, and blood began to seep through the white suit. Then, he felt lightheaded.  _ Severely _ lightheaded, as if he were about to pass out.

 

Randall stumbled backwards slightly, and he fell backwards as he passed out, his back hitting the wall, and he slid down it.

 

That was all Angela had seen. She didn’t know if he was okay or not. All she could see was Randall, leant limply against the wall, graffiti wings spread behind him and a crown hovering just above his head, which was tilted to the side.

 

She couldn’t see his face behind the mask. Her concentration kept skipping between the bloody mark in his left shoulder and the mask, hoping that perhaps he would move, that he’d prove he was still okay. That he wasn’t dead.

 

Randall didn’t move.

 

Angela held her breath as Government officials went over to his body and started to drag him away. She watched as they erased what he had done, sprayed over the once beautiful white wings with grey and turned the wall back to a dull, sheer height.

 

Everything of Randall was gone, now.

 

They’d destroyed his work. They’d taken his life.

 

Angela didn’t know how she could explain this anymore. What could she say? She felt guilty of what had happened- that she was the reason that Randall had gotten out and done this. That she was the reason why he was now lying dead. That she was the reason the Government had found him and taken him.

 

How could she explain that to anyone?

 

A bitter feeling of hopelessness was all that she could distinguish as she slowly made her way back to the base.

 

She couldn’t explain this. She couldn’t say what had happened.

 

It hurt too much.

 

\--

 

Randall woke up somewhere he didn’t recognise. It was dimly lit, and he was aware of the fact that he didn’t have his mask. Something he always took out with him. It must have been taken. He was still wearing his white jacket, so he guessed he must have been outside somewhere before ending up here. Along with that, his arms were tied behind his back, and he couldn’t move from where he had been put. Tied to a chair.

 

He didn’t like this at all.

 

What could have happened? He only remembered the graffiti, but nothing more.

 

Suddenly, Randall was aware of a piercingly loud note playing in his left ear. He winced, trying to shake his head to stop whatever was causing it, but nothing seemed to work. Soon, the notes picked up in his right ear too, following a pattern. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

 

Then, his vision was taken over by flashing images. They moved so fast he couldn’t distinguish anything, melting into each other like some sort of dissonant strobe lighting. Randall couldn’t turn away from it. They seemed to follow his eyes, and he quickly resolved that they must have had him wearing glasses, forcing him to see it.

 

Next, he tried desperately to tear his hands from his restraints, pulling at the ropes, hoping that he might be able to get just one hand out. As the sounds in his ears picked up, getting louder and more discordant, Randall felt himself giving up. He no longer felt in control of his body.

 

His arms fell limp, and he stared forward blankly. He definitely had no control anymore. A voice began speaking through the notes- he must have been wearing earphones which forced him to listen- telling him to follow orders.

 

Something untied him from the chair. Randall wanted to break out from this. He wanted to tear the earphones out, tear the visor from his face and kill whoever had gotten him here. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

 

He had no control over his body, and he was blindly following whatever orders were being fed to him through the earpieces.

 

He felt helpless. 

 

\--

 

It had taken Angela a few hours to work out what to say. She had returned calmly, trying to make it seem like nothing had gone wrong, and that Randall would be back soon, but someone had to have noticed, right?

 

She had gone to see Hershel. He was the only one she could really talk to, now, since Henry had been taken. Of course, she knew that he was still trying to recover from Claire being taken, but someone had to know.

 

Angela knocked on the door to Hershel’s room, opening the door slightly. He was sat at his desk, focusing on something.

 

“Ah, Angela! Is there something you need?” Hershel turned and smiled at her.

 

Everything that she had planned to say completely left her memory. She had no idea how to explain it again.

 

“It’s… Randall.”

 

The smile on Hershel’s face faltered. “What’s happened?”

 

“They killed him. He was- he was out graffitiing and they shot him-”

 

The image of him leant up against the wall, the wings spread behind him, came back into view. She began to shake, and she finally walked into Hershel’s room. Hershel stood up, slightly awkwardly embracing Angela in a hug.

 

They were losing everyone close to them for this.

 

“They took his body. I don’t want to think about what they’ll do…”

 

“Angela, I… I don’t know what to say. Just try to keep yourself safe. We’ll try and get Henry back as soon as we can.”

 

“Don’t worry anyone else with this, Hershel. Please.”

 

“Of course not. If you need to talk to me, please do.”

 

Angela nodded and headed back to her own room. It felt strange to be so alone. She wasn’t sure what she could do anymore.

 

\--

 

Randall had been told day in and out to act with extreme aggression towards Resistance members. By now, he had no ability to distinguish his own thoughts from what he was told, and he actually  _ believed _ what he was told.

 

Each day, he was put out onto the streets, and with the visor’s images flashing at the sides of his vision, Randall patrolled. The low sound of boots on the concrete, meaningful steps, was the only warning that anyone had to his appearance. 

 

So far, he had seen no one, but he wouldn’t stop looking until he was called back.

 

\--

 

It had been two weeks since Randall was presumed dead, and Hershel had completely thrown himself into work. He didn’t want to think about it.

 

Of course, Descole had noticed this. Hershel was his brother after all, and he was worried, to an extent.

 

“Hershel.” Descole had let himself into Hershel’s room without any former warning, and Hershel jumped at how sudden it was.

 

“Is something the matter?”

 

“Clearly something is to you. You’ve been working nonstop for two weeks now. No more excuses, brother. We’re going out into the streets to look for Randall.”

 

“How do you-”

 

“Some things don’t need to be said to be known.” Descole took Hershel’s wrist and pulled him out of his room. “Go get Luke, he’s coming with us.”

 

“Wouldn’t that be dangerous for him?”

 

“He’s small. He’s nimble. He’ll be able to keep himself safe, and if not, I’ll keep him safe.”

 

Well, Hershel couldn’t disagree with that. He went off to get Luke, and soon the three stepped out into the streets, searching for Randall.

 

“I’ve heard reports of a white-clad, visor wearing redhead patrolling the streets. A couple sources say he’ll react aggressively towards members of our Resistance, but no one’s seen it happen yet. Whatever they’ve done to him, it’s done something to his head.” Descole filled Luke and Hershel in with what he knew. “But I’m sure whatever they’ve done can be reversed.”

 

“I’m still not sure if we can trust you…” Luke mumbled, and Descole looked down at him.

 

“Luke, consider this. My friends  _ and _ yours are dying for this Resistance. Hershel is my brother, and I would protect him, and I will protect  _ you. _ ”

 

“Luke, we can trust Desmond.”

 

Luke simply nodded, and the three continued on in silence, until at the end of the street, a gentleman in white turned to them. He had been walking across the road, and stopped in the middle of it, turning his head to see the three more clearly. Then, he turned his whole body.

 

“Well, there he is.” Descole glanced to Hershel. “Who’ll move first, do you think?”

 

There wasn’t much time for a reply. Randall had dashed down the street, aiming for Hershel first. Hershel had pushed Luke to the left, and Descole had pushed himself in front of Hershel to defend him.

 

“Luke, run!”

 

Luke glanced at Hershel, before bolting back the way they had come.

 

Randall pushed Descole out the way and aimed a solid punch at Hershel’s chest. He only narrowly blocked it, stepping backwards to give himself more space.

 

“You are members of the Resistance.” Randall sounded mechanical, as if he were being forced to speak.

 

“Randall, please-” Hershel began, but Randall lunged for him again.

 

This time, he hit. It was a jab to Hershel’s stomach, and he doubled over, giving Randall a chance to kick at Hershel’s body.

 

Before he managed this, however, there was a loud  _ thwack _ , and Randall fell forward, completely unconscious. Descole was stood behind him, holding a large plank of wood.

 

“I knew this might happen. Come on, brother. We have to get him back to base before he wakes up.”

 

Hershel was completely  _ stunned _ by what had just happened.

 

“Hershel!” Descole shook him slightly, and he shook his head. “Pick up Randall, I’ll cover you.”

 

Hershel nodded, crouching down and picking up Randall’s unconscious form, holding him carefully.

 

“I’m sure I can reverse what they’ve done. It might take me a few days, though.”

 

The two began to make their way back.

 

“Do you think Luke’s alright?”

 

Descole glanced around the street, seeing a flash of blue disappear into an alleyway.

 

“I’m sure he’s fine. He’ll be back at base without a scratch on him.”

 

Hershel frowned just a bit. “That sounds ominous. How can you be so certain?”

 

A slight grin passed onto Descole’s face. “Let’s just say a particular kneesocks boy has him covered.”

 

Hershel hadn’t really even noticed Clive in the Resistance. He had no doubt that he was part of it, but he saw almost nothing of him. Descole seemed to know what Hershel was thinking.

 

“He’s part of the sector I’m in. Since he doesn’t entirely know all of us, he likely feels he has to prove himself, and saving Luke is what he’s chosen.” 

 

Hershel hummed very slightly. “I think that will work. I trust him, and hopefully, so will everyone else.”


	10. Teenboy Clive does a Resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chronological beginning for Clive. While wandering the streets, he encounters a masked man, who introduces him to the Resistance.

‘ _ Justice. Anarchy. Justice. Anarchy. Justice. Anarchy. Resistance. _ ’ Clive repeated to himself internally, every day.

 

The propaganda wouldn’t get to him. Clive knew the truth. He knew the cause of the explosion, ten years ago. He knew everything behind it. Every day, he reaffirmed these things to himself. That he knew who he was. What he stood for. What needed to be done.

 

Silently, he surged with rage. With each step he took, he felt it build. It was getting to the point he wasn’t able to contain himself. He held himself back from snapping, from shouting to the wind what he knew. From revealing his true intentions.

 

He couldn’t do that. He needed an outlet. He needed to know that he would be supported, if just by a few people.

 

But Clive had no one he could trust. No one he  _ dared _ trust. What if they were part of the Government? Clive would be taken. Tortured. He hated the thought. However, he hated keeping it all to himself. He wanted to vent. He  _ needed _ to vent.

 

He just didn’t have anyone to vent to.

 

Instead, he spent his nights tearing up fabric, his clothes, mostly. When he couldn’t do that, he punched at his pillow, scratched at his bed, and worst of all, at himself. His skin, by this point, was marred with red spots and old scratch wounds. He hated it. It was just a reminder of his own inability to do anything. He was worthless.

 

Ten years of rage could only manifest itself as self harm. He was just one man, and one man couldn’t take down a Government. He knew that from experience.

 

He needed to find people he could trust. A Resistance against the Government.

 

‘ _ Justice. Anarchy. Resistance. _ ’ Clive repeated again, stepping in time with each word. ‘ _ Justice. Anarchy. Resistance. Justice. Anarchy. Resis- _ ’

 

His thought stopped. He’d glanced to the side, and seen… graffiti. It was beautiful, he had to admit. It was gold and white, and seemed to be a… mask of sorts. Clive recognised it only vaguely, he’d seen it before in a book, he thought. The mask of… Chaos?

 

But instead of a sun in the forehead, a black anarchy symbol had been sprayed. Or, was  _ being _ sprayed. Clive was the only one in the street, and a man in a billowing white cloak was stood at the wall, graffitiing the mask.

 

Clive thought it best not to approach. They might have a weapon. As they finished spraying, they turned around, to check if anyone had seen. Of course, they only saw Clive.

 

Clive only saw a masked man.

 

“Who are you?” the masked man asked. “Answer, or die.”

 

“My name is Clive Dove.” Clive made sure he wouldn’t stutter. He was holding himself as steady as he could. “What could I call you?”

 

“...I, am the Masked Gentleman.” he stepped towards Clive, who stayed resolute. “Why are you here? Are you part of the Government?”

 

Clive couldn’t stop the look of disgust from taking over him. “The  _ Government? _ I’d tear them down if I had more support. One man can’t take them down, but a resistance can.”

 

“Resistance. You want the resistance.”

 

“I want to resist the Government, and I will. You’re part of the Resistance, aren’t you. No one else would dare to graffiti.”

 

“I like to live on the edge. I  _ very _ much like to resist the Government in any way I can. Well,  _ Clive Dove _ , I think that you will fit in around here.”

 

The Masked Gentleman began to walk, and Clive followed. He led him along through back streets and alleyways, before reaching, just on the outskirts of the city, a… hidden tunnel. The Masked Gentleman pushed Clive in first, and they headed into the depths of an old sewer system.

 

It didn’t smell too bad, and it seemed cosy enough. Clive liked the clang of the metal grate flooring that went over most other levels.

 

“Make yourself comfortable in whatever sector you choose. This one’s mostly a scrapheap, but it’s ideal if you’re going to be… making things.”

 

Clive nodded, and the Masked Gentleman pulled his mask off.

 

“You can call me Randall while we’re here. Randall Ascot. It’s good to see people joining the Resistance. We don’t get much coverage ‘round here.” he grinned slightly, and Clive stifled a laugh.

 

“Oh, I bet. I’ll see you around, then. I’ll need to get in sync with how everyone works around here.”

 

“Best of luck, Clive.”

 

“And you, Randall.”


	11. OOoooogh Randall is a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the government's brainwashing, Randall can't remember much at all. It'll take a bit of prompting to remind him...

Since Randall had been used to the tones and flashing images, it was strangely different when he was sat in a sheer grey room with dull-ish lighting. It reminded him of something he couldn’t name. The lack of sensory stimulation was playing havoc with him, and so the Resistance had taken to sending someone into the room with him and talking to him.

 

The silence was gonna kill him.

 

No one had come in for a few hours now. Was it hours? Was it days? Randall didn’t know. It felt like years.

 

His foot began to tap on the floor. He wriggled in the restraints keeping him in the chair. He tried to make any kind of sound, but… he wasn’t sure how to.

 

The door opened slowly, and in came Hershel, who smiled a little sheepishly at Randall.

 

Randall hadn’t seen him much. He recognised his face. He didn’t know his name.

 

“Are you feeling okay, Randall?”

 

“How do you know who I am? Why do I know your face? Who are you to me?”

 

“Randall… how about we take this slowly.” Hershel sat in front of him. “Do you remember anything else about me aside from my face?”

 

Randall tilted his head slightly and squinted, as if trying to remember something he’d forgotten. “No. I don’t know you. Who are you?”

 

“Hershel. My name is Hershel. Do you remember anything about me, Randall?”

 

There was a pause.

 

“...Hersh?” Randall’s voice cracked very slightly. “I-I remember you.”

 

Hershel smiled at Randall, who slowly managed to offer a smile back. It seemed kind of awkward for Randall, who was trying to actually hold back tears. The mass of memories that were flooding back hurt him. It was too much at once, compared to what he was used to.

 

Hershel had untied the restraints on Randall’s chair- when looking back he’d realize how dangerous that could have been- and Randall instantly stood up, embracing Hershel in a tight hug.

 

“Hershel!! It’s- it’s-! It’s you! A-and I remember you!”

 

As Randall pulled away from the hug, he looked around.

 

“Where are the others- Henry, Angela? Where are they, Hershel? Are they alright?”

 

Hershel didn’t want to lie to Randall. Not while he was vulnerable like this.

 

“There’s… something that happened. Randall, I think we should go talk to Angela.”

 

“So Angela’s okay? But- what about Henry? What’s happened to him?” Randall was getting panicked. “What happened to him, Hersh?”

 

Hershel gently held Randall’s hand, and started leading him out of the “Rehab Room”, taking him along to Angela’s room. At first, Hershel paused at the door, wondering to himself if taking Randall to see Angela about Henry being taken was the best thing to do. He could explain it, couldn’t he?

 

He had almost redecided his choice, however Angela had opened the door.

 

“Hershel? Randall!”

 

Angela reached out, pulling Randall into a hug, which he happily returned.

 

“Angela! It’s- it’s so good to see you- to remember you!” he was grinning giddily, before it fell slightly. “Hershel said that you knew what happened to… Henry.”

 

“...ah.” was all Angela said.

 

“Was it… something bad?”

 

“Hershel, I’ll talk to Randall about this. I’m sure you’re needed somewhere else.”

 

Hershel opened his mouth to protest, but Angela shook her head.

 

“Of course. I’ll leave you both to it.” Hershel nodded. “I’ll go check Sector B.”

 

“We’ll get to talk later, right Hersh?” Randall turned to him for a moment, as he was walking away.

 

“Of course.” Hershel offered him one last smile as he headed down to Sector B.


	12. Clive gets beaten up: the movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New to the Resistance, Clive doesn't entirely know what to do. Being inside for so long is making him antsy, and he wants action.

Clive was impulsive. Randall had learned that within the first few days of knowing him, but he knew that Clive had some underlying timer keeping him from performing whatever wild impulsive thought that had come to him. However, of course, it was a  _ timer.  _ Someday, Clive would snap and do something that could either go terribly well, or terribly bad.

 

Randall didn’t expect that day to be so soon.

 

He was supposed to find him. The Resistance was still young, and they needed as many people as they could get, and Randall had thought that Clive had potential. So now, he was kind of responsible for him.

 

Wherever he’d gotten to.

 

\--

 

Clive couldn’t handle staying cooped up for so long. He felt so much stronger with the Resistance beside him, and pacing through his room in Sector B wasn’t helping him. Feelings kept on bubbling up and then fading as quick as they came, and it was making him a sharp mix between enraged and confused.

 

He couldn’t distinguish just one emotion, and before he knew it, he was leaving the base, sneaking his way through the streets of London. Of course Clive knew it best for him to hide. If he was to be linked to the Resistance, his life would  _ basically _ be over.

 

But another part of him couldn’t bring itself to care.

 

His hands were balled into fists, and he was striding through London streets, his anger clearly visible. Along with his anger being visible,  _ he _ was visible. And a target. Something must have passed around somewhere, as the Government had sent three people to take Clive down.

 

He could see them at the end of the street, moving towards him.

 

Clive stopped moving. He glanced around the street- empty. Everyone had left upon seeing the Government’s lackeys- and he let out a huff of annoyance.

 

‘ _ Ugh, fuck. _ ’ was what he thought to himself. ‘ _ What sort of a stupid fuck am I, waltzing around as if I own the place. Guess I’ll fight and potentially die. There’s nothing else I can do at this point. _ ’

 

As he began to stand in a more protective manner, Clive realized the severity of what he’d done. He wasn’t blind, he could see exactly what they were holding.

 

Weapons.

 

If he had any sense left in him, Clive would have run. There were only two things left in Clive at this point. His sense of honour, and his sense of justice. He wasn’t going to turn and run away with his tail between his legs. No, even if he died, he would let the world know that the Resistance was willing to die for their cause.

 

A pretty violent image there.

 

The masks on the lackeys were supposed to make him feel scared. Clive wasn’t scared at all. The determination on his face, he hoped, would scare his assailants. However, he was kind of like a dog with no claws. All he had was his fists, and they had weapons. Bats, knives. And there were three of them, and only one of him.

 

His guts twisted as the first one lunged at him, a knife drawn. Clive aimed to knock it from his hands, but they twisted it slightly, instead cutting through his arm. With a hiss, Clive jumped backwards.

 

It was getting to him now, the nerve of all this. He shouldn’t have been out. He shouldn’t have made such a mistake.

 

The next attack came as a punch to his guts. He moved his bleeding arm to cover his stomach from more attacks, but that left him open. Two cuts split down his left cheek, and Clive turned to his left to try and shield himself from any more attacks. Instead, it left his right cheek open to be slashed as well.

 

Then, they tried to stab him. Clive’s right arm lashed out, and he knocked the knife from one of them, and the other, he grabbed onto their hand, pushing the knife back. They twisted the knife and Clive lost grip, but twisted himself enough to, instead of impaling himself on the knife, slam his shoulder into his attacker, making them stumble back.

 

For someone bleeding this much, Clive was  _ highly _ aware of what was going on.

 

His second attacker had grabbed their knife and raked it across his back. With a shout, Clive kicked out one of his legs, catching his attacker by surprise and knocking them to the floor. His first attacker had stepped back after seeing that Clive was still able to fight, and his second was scrabbling to get up off the floor, and to run.

 

Had Clive won? Had he beaten them?

 

He sneered as the two ran, before his focus changed to something behind him.

 

“Oi, blue boy!” came a shout.

 

Clive turned, and instantly, he felt something collide with the side of his head.  _ Hard _ . The sheer force of the hit had spun him around, he felt as if his head had split straight open, and he fell to the tarmac, bleeding and unconscious. Standing over him, was the third attacker. The one with the bat, which was now dripping with Clive’s blood.

 

The attacker looked over him for a few moments, before grabbing onto his leg, as if preparing to drag him somewhere.

 

From a dark alleyway came a cloaked white figure, with a mask hiding their face. They slammed into the third attacker, making them drop Clive. In one fluid movement, the Masked Gentleman had picked Clive up, and was running with him. He wasn’t sure if Clive was even alive. All he knew was, he was responsible for the man, and he had to get him back to the Resistance base.

 

Taking a few shortcuts, the Masked Gentleman evaded all of the Government invigilators, sneaking back into the base. Carefully, he carried Clive to the infirmary.

 

“Please try and save him.” was all he said as he lay him on a makeshift bed.

 

Clive wasn’t bleeding too heavily anymore. It was drying now, and Randall noticed something. Clive might have had a hard exterior, but he almost looked peaceful while… unconscious, he guessed. He could see him breathing, now, but he’d made no attempt to move.

 

Randall left the medics to it, resolving to wait for a message.

 

\--

 

It had taken a few days, Clive had sustained some dangerous wounds, but Randall had received word that “blue justice boy has woken up,” and now he was heading off to visit him. As Randall entered the infirmary, he heard someone call his name. Or, his last name.

 

“Ascot! Fuck, it’s good to see someone I know.”

 

It sounded like Clive’s voice, but Randall couldn’t be sure until he saw him sat up in his bed, a half-grin on his face.

 

“I presume you know what happened to you?” Randall began as he approached.

 

“A bit? Most of its all red and blurry. Couldn’t care less about it. Bunch of mistakes on my part, a bit of fighting back, getting hit with a bat. How’d I get back here?”

 

“I carried you back. I watched you get hit with the bat and  _ I  _ thought you were dead.” Randall frowned at him. “Next time, don’t go doing something like that alone. You’ve got guts, but-”

 

“If I keep going the way I am they’ll be outside of me? Know that one. Thanks for looking out for me, Randall.”

 

“I don’t want to have to save your life a second time, Clive, but I will if I have to.”

 

“Oh, I’ll repay this before that happens.”

 

Randall raised an eyebrow. “So sure?”

 

“Certain.”


	13. No Professor I’m not crying I’m just allergic to Clive’s death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel and Luke go to visit Clive's grave.

“Luke, are you sure about this?” Hershel was holding Luke’s hand as they walked.

 

“I’m certain, Professor…” Luke sounded uncertain, but Hershel ignored it, instead smiling at him.

 

It’d been many weeks now, since the raid. Since… well. Since Clive’s death. Hershel knew that Randall and Descole had visited at least once by now, and Descole had been assigned to check through his belongings.

 

“I found something important that Clive was working on. Think I’ll finish it for him.” Descole had said, but he’d not mentioned  _ what _ that important thing was.

 

The walk was mostly silent, Luke was trying to hold any emotion back, and Hershel still wasn’t certain how to react. He was terrible with dealing with emotional trauma, and he doubted Luke was really any better…

 

“How far now, Professor?” Luke looked up at Hershel, who offered him another smile.

 

“Not far, my boy.”

 

The two reached a clearing. The ground was stirred up here, and there was a stone that Randall had put on it. He’d carved Clive’s name into it, just so it was permanent.

 

Luke let go of Hershel’s hand, and he knelt in front of Clive’s grave.

 

He wondered what Clive would do in this situation. If he knew that the fight wasn’t over? That there was still so much to be done? That… things weren’t all going well.

 

Clive would have been pacing around, mumbling to himself. He’d be weighing up plan ideas between making something mechanical. He’d be running plans through groups and organising more and more things to further the Resistance’s work. He’d be working overtime, overloading, juggling the problems of Sector B and more, but most importantly, he’d be protecting Luke.

 

Luke shook slightly. His bottom lip started quivering, but he quickly tried to replace his feelings with something else. He didn’t want to feel it.

 

What would Clive do…?

 

Clive would have come over to him, asked him what was bothering him. He’d go too far and say he’d fight whatever had made Luke feel bad, that he’d put himself in harm's way, like he had when his arm got shot, like he had even  _ before _ Luke and Hershel had joined the Resistance- Randall had told them both the story about how Clive had fought off three Government Invigilators alone, and only  _ almost _ died.

 

Luke looked up to him for that. How determined he was. How driven. How resolute.

 

And now he was dead.

 

Clive had died  _ protecting  _ Luke. He had died doing what he felt was necessary. To serve the Resistance.

 

Luke missed him. He missed him a lot.

 

Before he knew it, he was crying. He wiped his eyes on his sleeves and stood up, running towards Hershel.

 

“I miss him! Why did he have to die, Professor? Why did he die for  _ me?! _ ” Luke grabbed tightly onto Hershel’s arms, hugging him tightly and crying into his chest.

 

Hershel took half a step backwards, hugging Luke back. “I… I don’t know, Luke. He valued your life over his own.”

 

“But  _ why?! _ He was- he- he-!” Luke began to stutter, before burying his face further into Hershel. “ _ He was more important than me, right?! _ ”

 

“Luke, you were worth more than anything to him, and you’re worth the same to many others, myself included. We care about you, just like Clive did.”

 

Luke only seemed to cry harder.

 

“But that won’t bring Clive back! I know I sound stupid and selfish and everything but I want him back!”

 

Hershel sighed very softly. “I do too, but… there’s nothing we can do to get him back.”

 

Luke fell silent, bar his sniffling. The two stayed where they stood, simply just hugging each other. They stayed like that for a few minutes, before Luke pulled away.

 

“I want to keep on living for him, Professor. He wanted me to survive… so I will. For him.”


	14. Mecha Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive's dead, and hasn't finished his gift for Luke, and only Descole knows about it. He takes matters into his own hands, to finish the gift and give it to Luke.

Clive had been planning to make something for Luke for a long time. It was to be a mechanical dog, with soundclips of Clive, to protect Luke. It was his greatest creation. What he needed to complete, not only for Luke, but for himself. He was part way through recording all of the soundclips, and had stopped for a break.

 

“Heard you talking to yourself.” Descole had come in, and Clive turned on his swivel chair.

 

“I’m working on something. Something for Luke.”

 

“Oh? What takes such extensive talking, then? Sounds like you might as well be-”

 

“Recording myself? Funny you should say.” Clive motioned to his monitor, which showed all the saved recordings. “Can you keep this just between you and me?”

 

“Well I still don’t even know what it is.” Descole walked over, looking at the monitor, then to Clive.

 

“It’s to be a mechanical dog. A mechadog, if you will. I’m going to put soundclips of myself into it, and program it to protect Luke. I’m recording all of the soundclips now, while I feel good.” Clive then motioned to a collection of metal sat on his desk. “I’m working out sizes of the dog. I’m thinking it should be large enough to carry Luke, just in case something goes bad.”

 

“Like on its back?”

 

“Exactly. Luke’s around 4ft-something, right?”

 

“I’ll find out for you. I’m sure I should leave you be, for now?”

 

“If you could.”

 

As Descole left, Clive returned to recording. He wanted this done  _ at least _ before the raid that was set to happen in a few days time. If he was lucky, he’d have part of the dog done. He knew it wouldn’t be finished, but he could finish it when he came back. Clive was sure he could have the head done, and maybe part of the body? He wasn’t  _ entirely _ sure, but again. Finish when he got back from the raid.

 

They were going to get the hostages back.

 

…

 

Clive didn’t come back from the raid. The dog sat half finished on his desk, its head fully made, but nothing more. Clive’s computer was still humming, the folder containing all the recordings sat open…

 

Only when Descole went into Clive’s room to check through his things did he remember what Clive had told him.

 

“Keep this just between you and me.” Descole echoed what Clive had said. “Oh fuck… the dog.”

 

Descole walked further into the room, closing the door behind him. If Clive couldn’t finish the dog, then  _ he _ would. Sitting himself down in Clive’s chair, he looked over what Clive had left.

 

He didn’t have enough metal, so Descole would have to get some. He would have to wire it and code it and make sure that the dog protected Luke, and had Clive’s soundclips inside it. It was all that was left of Clive. This dog was the last thing that Clive had left behind.

 

And only Descole knew what it was for.

 

“Descole?” there was a knock at the door. “Luke and I are going out.”

 

Hershel.

 

“Keep yourselves safe, brother. I'd hate for anything to happen to either of you.”

 

“Will you be in there long? I think we'll need to talk afterwards.”

 

“Not sure yet. I'm finding what I can salvage and I'll tell you from there.”

 

“Alright. See you later.”

 

“See you, Hershel.”

 

Descole could hear Hershel leaving. He wondered where Luke and he could have been going, but turned his attention back to the dog. Maybe Clive had left something nearby? Maybe he'd done more than just the head? Had he drawn blueprints? He began to search around Clive’s room a little more, checking through files on his computer- changing the password, of course, to something he knew, just in case it turned off- but found very little.

 

“Couldn’t you have left me with any pointers, Clive…?” Descole sighed as he looked at what he had. “You were always one to keep to yourself…”

 

Shaking his head, Descole left Clive’s room, locking it behind him. He’d need to get quite a lot to finish this dog with little in the way of blueprints.

 

‘ _ Planned it all in his head, like always. _ ’ 

 

Descole could almost hear what Clive had said weeks before.

 

“I wouldn’t dare write a thing down. What if  _ I _ get caught? What if they break in here like they did before? Can’t afford to lose anything to that.” Clive had been shaking his head as he, much to Descole’s confusion, moved a couple of pins around in his desk.

 

Clearly they meant something, but Descole had never found out what.

 

Heading towards the scrapheap, Descole began trying to picture what this Mech dog could look like.

 

\--

 

Descole, following in Clive’s tradition, didn’t draw up blueprints. He worked entirely from how he pictured it in his mind, and, though it was a little more stressful to work entirely from mind, when he slept at night, it felt safer. No one else could know what it was supposed to look like, what it contained…

 

Some nights, Descole lay awake, thinking about what if  _ he _ died. Then who would finish it? No one would be around to, no one would know what they were doing with it. That’s why Descole had taken to keeping himself inside the base. He rarely even left Sector B, now. When Hershel came to visit, Descole was working with metal and wires the entire time.

 

“Are you alright, Desmond? You haven’t left Sector B for a while, and I’m worried.” Hershel had said.

 

“I’m fine, Hershel. Just caught up with a few projects.”

 

“What Clive left behind?”

 

“The exact one.” Descole looked at the metal in his hands, moving it just a little bit. “It’s taking a lot of thought. I don’t think like Clive did, so it’s… difficult.”

 

“Do you need any help with it? I’m sure I can spare some-”

 

“No need, Hershel, but thank you. I’m pretty sure I can work it all out.” Descole flashed him a smile, which Hershel returned.

 

“Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” Hershel stood up, going for the door, before Descole’s voice stopped him.

 

“You don’t happen to know what those pins in Clive’s desk meant, do you?”

 

Hershel turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “I thought you might know about that.”

 

“Unfortunately not. Their meaning eludes me, and Clive never explained it. If you could, would you ask Luke for me? You never know what he might’ve explained to different people.”

 

“I suggest asking Randall too.”

 

“I’ll make sure to. See you around, brother. Keep yourself safe.

 

“Yes, and you, Desmond.”

 

Descole had thought back on the conversation many times in the passing days. He knew little of what Hershel was up to in Sector A, just like Hershel knew little of what he was doing in Sector B.

 

It felt kind of lonely, sometimes. Descole began to understand why Clive was sometimes so starved for affection, and why he valued the company of those he saw as friends. Why he fought tirelessly for them. Only now had Descole realized, Clive viewed the Resistance as his family.

 

The realisation had brought quite a few emotions up for Descole, which he instantly tried to suppress. He just didn’t understand how Clive was able to hold onto himself for so long. He’d spent weeks at a time all alone, with only himself as company, and yet still managed to keep himself in control.

 

Of course, he’d heard about when he wasn’t able to. When Randall had organized a discussion in Sector C- a mostly unused sector- he told about Clive’s impulsiveness, and how he’d almost gotten himself killed within a week of joining. Within that, though, he proved himself to be surprisingly resilient, taking on three people with weapons at once, while all he had was his bare hands.

 

It was either brilliance or absolute stupidity, and no one but Clive knew if the entire thing was planned or not.

 

Descole thought it might not have been planned. No one would willingly go out and try to fight Government Invigilators with nothing on hand. He also knew that sometimes, Clive didn’t think things though before going ahead.

 

Of course, it was all speculation. Who would ever know? No one, so what did it matter?

 

…

 

Descole had been working on the dog for a few weeks now, and it was almost done. All Descole needed to do was to attach the head to the body, and install the soundclips in. Then he’d start testing it.

 

There was a drastic difference between Clive’s handiwork and Descole’s, and attaching the head was a more difficult task than he’d expected. Nonetheless, he managed to attach it- not without losing a couple hours, a day at most- and was working on the recordings.

 

Listening back to Clive’s voice seemed… strange. It was the last thing proving his existence, aside from the Mecha Dog’s head. Descole couldn’t help but miss him.

 

“I don’t want to spend more time at his grave. He wouldn’t want anyone to be so hung up about it.” Descole had Mech Dog linked to the computer, and he was choosing the right soundfiles for each reaction from it. “I don’t really think it can be helped… something about him had a profound effect on those around him, I suppose. It just can’t be placed what about him was… like that.”

 

It took him around two hours to finish assigning the soundclips, and Descole disconnected Mech Dog from Clive’s computer, turning it on.

 

“Mecha, can you hear me?” Descole crouched in front of it.

 

“Loud and clear. Where’s Luke?” Mech Dog sounded pretty much like Clive, but you’d only notice it if you knew it was.

 

“I’ll take you to him in a moment. I’m turning you off for a moment.”

 

Descole turned Mech Dog off again, linking it back into the computer. There was something that he’d done that Clive hadn’t thought of.

 

He’d coded it so that Mech Dog could take from the recorded things Clive had said, and… manipulate them into new sentences. Mech Dog had a working AI that was  _ learning _ .

 

“A little bit of creative liberty on my part… I hope you don’t mind it, Clive.”

 

Descole thought how Clive might reply to that. Probably a simple “Damn. I hadn’t thought of that.”, and he smiled slightly. He’d definitely miss Clive. He was basically an intellectual sparring partner, and even others had noticed how well the two got along when working.

 

Shaking his head and clearing his thoughts, Descole disconnected Mech Dog once more, and turned it back on.

 

“How are you feeling, Mecha?”

 

“Been worse, definitely!”

 

That hadn’t been programmed in. The AI was already searching for replies through whatever database it had.

 

“Are we going to find Luke?” that one, Descole knew was programmed.

 

“Yes. Come with me.”

 

Command word. As Descole stood up, Mecha prepared itself to move. Descole left Clive’s room, and Mecha followed, standing behind him as he locked the door. Then, he headed towards Sector A.

 

\--

 

A loud knock on his door brought Luke out of a fitful sleep. He sat up from his bed and turned on his light, carefully making his way over to the door. Upon opening it, he saw Descole.

 

“Sorry for the intrusion, Luke, but…” Descole paused.

 

“But what? I was-”

 

“I have a gift for you. From Clive.”

 

Luke froze. “How can it be from Clive? He’s… you know he’s…”

 

“Before the raid, he was working on something for you. He meant to finish it when he came back, but… we both know what happened then. I was the only person he told about it. I took it upon myself to finish it for him.”

 

Descole said nothing more, instead stepping to the side and revealing… a mechanical dog.

 

“This is Mecha.” Descole motioned to it.

 

“It’s calming to know that you’re safe, Luke.” Mecha walked forward before sitting in front of Luke. “Have you been well?”

 

“He can talk?!” Luke looked down at Mecha, before back up to Descole.

 

“Clive’s idea. I simply edited the AI a little so that it could piece together its own sentences.”

 

Luke looked down at Mecha- it wasn’t far to look, Mecha was big enough for Luke to fit on it’s back.

 

“What do you do?”

 

“I was built to protect you, Luke. In my creator’s stead.” Mecha tilted its head. “And I will.”

 

\--

 

Mecha was always around where Luke was, talking to him occasionally, but generally keeping him safe. Something about Mecha kept striking close to home with Luke. Something about the way it spoke. He wanted to test something before going to sleep.

 

“Mecha?”

 

“I’m here, Luke.”

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Luke paused for a moment, before asking, “What do you think about the Resistance?”

 

Mecha took a few seconds to form a reply. “I don’t fully have an opinion on it. I haven’t been around long.”

 

That wasn’t a reply Luke was after. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how else to ask a question that might get the reply Luke was hoping for, so he just rolled over in bed, pulling the sheets over him.

 

“I’m going to help us all get justice. That’s what I was made to do.”

 

_ Justice. _ That was the word Luke was looking for. The specific way that Mecha said it…

 

“Mecha, could you say justice again?” Luke turned back to Mecha, which tilted its head. “Doesn’t have to be in a sentence. Something pre-programmed into you.”

 

“Justice. Anarchy. Resistance.” came Mecha’s voice, and Luke very almost started crying then and there.

 

“Clive…” Luke got out of his bed, moving over to Mecha. “You sound just like him…”

 

Mecha didn’t say anything, and Luke started going for the door. “I have to tell the Professor.”

 

“The Professor? Luke, it’s late. Shouldn’t you tell him tomorrow?”

 

“But it’s important, Clive!” Luke covered his mouth quickly. “I mean, Mecha!”

 

“If you’d like to call me Clive, then you can.” Mecha stayed sat down. “I still think you should tell Hershel tomorrow.”

 

Luke paused, before heading back over to Mecha. “Alright, Clive. It’s just…”

 

In the dark, it was barely visible that Luke was crying.

 

“It’s good to have something of you back… I missed you so much. I still miss you so much.” Luke hugged Mecha tightly, continuing to cry. “I-I… I wish you hadn’t died for me.”

 

“I really wish you were still here. I miss your voice. Your impulsiveness. You’re… you were… you were like my brother. I want you here. I feel like your death was  _ my _ fault…”

 

“I just want you back! Why did you think that dying was the best thing to do?! Why did you leave us with nothing but loose ends and- unexplained… unexplained… u-unexplained… everything! What did you mean with what you said…? Why did you do what you did…?”

 

“Why did you let yourself die? Why didn’t you let me know you were in pain? That you’d been hit?! I could’ve tried to- to help! Did you not want me to worry…?”

 

Luke fell silent, only sniffling.

 

“I just want to have my brother back.”


	15. I’m not under the akfluence of inkahol…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clive is blind drunk and paranoid once again. It's surprising how he's able to talk so openly and easily when drunk, even without slurring words. Maybe he's drunk too much.

Since finding out about Clive’s alcoholism, Hershel had taken to checking on him every so often. Clive was isolated most of the time, by his own doing. He hated being around people too long, and preferred to work over talking.

 

But he preferred drinking over both of those. Unsupervised, Clive could drink an obscene amount, to the point he was blindly drunk. He tried his best not to do this when he knew someone was coming to visit him, but Hershel visited almost spontaneously. It was normally a Tuesday or a Thursday. Clive never knew why it was those days. He didn’t really care in this state.

 

He hadn’t been keeping tracks of the days this week. Or- was it last week? He didn’t know when he’d started drinking, but he hadn’t really stopped. When there was a knock at the door, he was almost panicked. Only almost, though. The rest of him didn’t care.

 

“It’s open.”

 

Clive heard the door open, and he glanced at who it was. Hershel.

 

“Are you alright, Clive?”

 

“No, Professor, I’m not alight, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” Clive narrowed his eyes at Hershel. “Why do you always ask that?”

 

“Because I’m worried about you. And- I asked if you were okay. I said “alright”, not “alight.””

 

“Oh. Hm. Sound interchangeable to me.” Clive waved a hand dismissively. “Why today, Professor?”

 

“It’s Tuesday. You know I visit on Tuesdays.”

 

“I see. It’s… Tuesday. I don’t remember it being Tuesday.” Clive frowned for a moment, before shrugging. “I suppose it’s Tuesday, then.”

 

“If I might say, you seem to be acting strange.”

 

“Strange? How stupid.” Clive stood up and scoffed.

 

Hershel stayed silent. 

 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Professor, I need to-” Clive suddenly retched, and he looked around his room. “-apparently find something to throw up in.”

 

“Clive, have you been drinking-?”

 

“For some time. I’m not sure how long, but-”

 

Suddenly, Clive dived for the bin in his room. Hershel actually had to turn away and cover his nose so that he wouldn’t throw up too. Clive let out a shaky sort of sigh, before starting to cry. He was sniffling, and he stood up slowly. When Hershel turned back, Clive was staring blindly at the wall, still crying.

 

“It’s just set in, Professor. The realization of everything.” Clive paused, blinking very slowly. “My parents are dead.  _ I  _ almost died.”

 

Almost without warning, Clive started crying harder. He quickly wiped his face with his blazer sleeve, before turning to Hershel.

 

“Why did you let Luke join the Resistance?! What if I can’t keep him safe, Professor?!” Clive’s eyes darted around the room, before he focussed back on Hershel. “What if he  _ dies _ , Professor?!”

 

“I would feel like that’s my fault! I don’t want Luke to die-  _ I  _ don’t want to die!” Clive began to shake. “I  _ hate _ how completely uncaring I am towards my own safety! I want to stay alive, Professor, but I just don’t seem to care enough!”

 

“Why, Professor?! Why can’t I care about myself?! I find myself only keeping myself alive because I won’t be able to save Luke if I don’t!”

 

Clive suddenly stopped, standing completely still.

 

“Why can’t I bring myself to care, Professor? I see you as my family, and I want to hold onto you all as long as I can, yet… I wouldn’t be too sad to see myself dead instead of you.”

 

Hershel walked towards Clive, pulling him into a hug. It wasn’t too tight a hug, so that Clive wouldn’t accidentally throw up.

 

“Don’t throw up on me, please.” Hershel spoke softly.

 

“I’m trying not to, Professor. I really am.” Clive hugged Hershel back.

 

The two stayed silent, Clive still crying into Hershel’s shoulder. It felt… comforting, to Clive. He basically saw Hershel as his dad, and he actually felt… accepted. Like everything could be okay. They stayed like that for a few minutes, before Clive suddenly pulled away.

 

“Can we walk around? I feel restless-”

 

“Of course. Lead the way.”

 

Clive walked from his room, Hershel following him. They started walking around Sector B, and Clive began to talk.

 

“I’ve thought about a lot of things while walking around Sector B. An unfortunate amount of them have been violent and self-destructive. I’ve thought about all the ways I could die in this Resistance. All the ways that I could be killed by the Government. Tortured into giving information- things I’d never spill. They’d kill me in frustration- and even all the ways I could kill myself.”

 

“Some could call me fickle. My mood switches at the drop of hat. My demeanour. How I react to things. My ideas. What I want to do to myself and to others.”

 

“I feel like a tangle of emotions half the time. A tangle of all sorts of unknown thoughts, feelings. Twisted up concepts and destructive actions. You know I scratch my left arm open with my right arm.” Clive instinctively reached for his left arm, but stopped himself, instead grabbing a railing and standing still. “Professor… do you have any coping mechanisms? If you do, they’re likely not as destructive as mine.”

 

“I… can’t say that I do. I try to distance myself from emotions often…”

 

“I’d say that’s coping. I suppose it’s sort of comforting to know that even you have coping mechanisms, but…”

 

Clive faded out, shaking his head and starting to walk again.

 

“Is it fair to say I fill the void of family and friends with robots? I taught myself to make things like this when I was younger. Before my family was torn apart. Before my parents were killed. I was always interested in it. You can make anything you want if you put your mind to it, you know…?”

 

“I keep pushing those boundaries. What else can I create? Can I even get to the point of creating an AI which learns from the things around it, or from what’s been programmed into it, and exceed its previous data?” Clive turned to Hershel and began to walk backwards. “And if so, how? What would I create to test it? Something simple? Or something confusing and prone to failure?”

 

Clive then turned back. He fell silent until the two reached the entrance to Sector C. 

 

“Our current risk of failure is too high. We can’t go out and find the hostages until we know the layout of the area they’re held in, who’s kept in there, and what potential dangers there could be. You’ve seen how badly things have gone in Sector B. Sector D have no orders as of now and Sector C is basically  _ abandoned. _ Nobody really does anything in Sector C.” Clive looked at the floor. “It’s a ghost town.”

 

Clive didn’t move from this spot. “What’s Sector A like right now?”

 

“It’s… surprisingly stable, we think. Everyone’s still on edge and trying to plan ways to get Claire, Crow and Henry back, but as you say… it’s too dangerous. We’re stuck at stalemate until somebody thinks of something, or somebody gets information on where the hostages are.” Hershel looked at Clive as he stood staring into Sector C, which was completely dark.

 

“Hmn.” Clive seemed to sigh, moving his weight onto one leg. “I think you should get back to Sector A, Hershel. I have things under control here in Sector B.”

 

“Are you certain? You’ve spent the past few days drinking, and though you are quick to act sober when it’s needed, you  _ are _ still drunk.”

 

Clive hummed in reply, but said nothing.

 

“I’ll see you later, Clive.” Hershel turned to walk away.

 

“Hopefully next time won’t be so bittersweet.” Clive replied. “Leaves a taste in my mouth I don’t like.”

 

Clive paused, and heard Hershel walk away.

 

“Though that could’ve been the vomit.”


	16. EMMY TO THE RESCUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emmy, now with free will on her side, snarks at Clive, and assists in cleaning Luke's wounds.

Emmy didn’t know the whole story of what had happened- truly, she didn’t think she needed to. All that currently mattered to her was that Luke was in pain. Clive had insisted on bringing Luke along with him on a “loot run”- Clive’s own term for a provisions hunt.

 

“He’ll be safe with me. Besides, it’s sort of... time he learned how to loot, right? We’ll both be fine!” is what Clive had said.

 

Now he and Luke were sat in the infirmary, Clive with bandages haphazardly wrapped around his left arm- his own attempt at stopping the bleeding- and his head leant on his right hand, and Luke covered in scrapes and bruises, with a sizeable gash in his cheek. Emmy didn’t care about what had happened to Clive- he, of course, understood why- and instead had instantly gone to help Luke.

 

“Sit down and let me clean up the blood.” Emmy gently led Luke to a bench, before scowling at Clive. “Now, what happened to keeping Luke safe,  _ Clive? _ ”

 

“I blundered, it’s that simple.” Clive was having the bandages unwrapped from his arm so someone could check on the wounds he’d sustained. “Most of the blood on Luke’s from me, so I didn’t go wrong there.”

 

“Why’d you even bring him in the first place, if you  _ knew _ it was dangerous?”

 

“Everything’s dangerous, Emmy! Nothing that we, as the Resistance, can do exists without its dangers!”

 

Emmy rolled her eyes and focused back on Luke, gently cleaning the wound gently with what little the infirmary had- that being cotton wool and TCP. Luke was wincing each time the TCP got into the cut, and Emmy had to very carefully clean around it.

 

“It’s alright, Luke. It won’t hurt as much when it’s clean.”

 

Once Emmy had cleaned up the blood, she picked up another piece of wool, flattening it and wetting it slightly, before putting it against the gash.

 

“Hold still, I need to tape this.” Emmy put one of Luke’s hands against the wet wool. “Hold it here.”

 

Luke did as he was told, and Emmy grabbed a bit of bandage and some medical tape, moving Luke’s hand and putting the bandage against the wool. She put Luke’s hand back onto the bandages and pulled some tape, stretching it lengthways and sticking it to Luke’s face.

 

“Try not to irritate it too bad, and sleep on the other side.” Emmy smiled softly at Luke, and he appeared to struggle in returning it. “I’ll clean the rest of your grazes, alright?”

 

As Emmy took a third piece of wool and put TCP on it, she heard Clive suddenly complain.

 

“Hey- hey, that  _ hurts! _ ” Clive tried to pull his arm away, scowling at the people trying to help. “That  _ mild _ antiseptic isn’t going to stop this from getting infected- you never know what the government’s laced their fucking weapons with-”

 

“What, would you prefer rubbing alcohols?” Emmy had to hold back a laugh, and she turned back to look at Clive. “Why don’t we go into your private stash, then?”

 

Clive whipped his head around to face Emmy, his scowl worse than before. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

 

Emmy snorted very quietly, before bursting out into laughter. She stopped cleaning Luke’s wounds for a few seconds, just to laugh.

 

“It was a  _ joke! _ Whatever alcohol you’ve been stashing away after provision hunts would be useless for cleaning anyway. That is, if we even got to using it before you’d drunk it all.”

 

Clive opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. Instead, he wrinkled his nose in disgust and fell silent, no longer even complaining about the pain. Emmy returned to cleaning the grazes Luke had sustained, making sure they were free of debris- it looked like there was gravel in some of them, and that confused Emmy.

 

“How did you get gravel in these? There’s not much gravel anywhere near here.”

 

Luke didn’t reply, so Emmy turned to Clive.

 

“Clive. How is there gravel in Luke’s grazes?”

 

“We went somewhere different. Somewhere we haven’t looted before. We thought it would be easier- or… might have something more.” Clive shut his eyes, thinking back on what had happened. “I didn’t expect the government to know we were there. It was basically the ass-end of nowhere- they had no reason to be there. But they were.”

 

“They weren’t even focused on killing me. They were aiming  _ entirely _ for Luke. Because I was surprised, they managed to cut his face before I could push him backwards, which is where he got the grazes.  _ And _ where I sustained all these cuts in my arm.” Clive’s head wasn’t leant on his hand anymore, and he was gesturing about with his right arm. “We got  _ nothing. _ All because I underestimated things. I’ll go out again later-”

 

“Not with your arm like that, you’re not!” Luke spoke up now. “If you get caught again, then what will you do?”

 

Clive leant his head back onto his hand and let out a huff. “Fine. I won’t go out again.”

 

“Luke’s right, Clive. You need to recover, and going out with a bleeding arm isn’t going to get us anything. We’ll organise something else in Sector A.” Emmy turned back towards Luke, finishing cleaning the worst of the grazes. “So you pushed Luke backwards, and-”

 

“I pushed him too hard because there was a knife in my arm. Luke ended up on the floor and he ran off before me. I had to get the knife out and everything-” Clive looked at his own arm, which was now properly bandaged. “Guess I’ve gotta be careful with this?”

 

“Most definitely, but I won’t be around to check on you. Just don’t end up opening the wounds again.” Emmy stood up from where she was crouched in front of Luke. “Luke, I’ll check on you later, if that’s alright?”

 

Luke nodded. “Yeah, that sounds alright. Thank you, Emmy.”

 

Emmy then turned to Clive. “Look after yourself, you stupid idiot.”

 

Clive let out a sort-of snort-laugh, standing up from where he had been sat. “Yeah, and you.”


	17. Current status: suffering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, if only the Resistance knew what the Azran were up to, hurting their friends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR A LOT OF GORE. A LOT OF VIOLENCE IS IN THIS CHAPTER.

There were three things that the Azran believed. Hear no evil. See no evil. Speak no evil. While they were in control of the torture of the Resistance members that had been kidnapped, that was what they followed. Hear no evil. Make them deaf. See no evil. Make them blind. Speak no evil. Make them mute.

 

At first, when they still had Luke, the torture had been generalized. Burning, cutting, and keeping them in dark areas. They didn’t know who should be assigned to what torture. Who should become deaf. Who should become mute. Who should become blind.

 

When Crow had swapped himself for Luke, they decided.

 

Claire was made to listen. To hear, understand, analyze and to know how to combat what she was facing. She would be made deaf.

 

Henry was made to talk. To explain, refute, argue, and to plan what would happen next. He would be silenced.

 

Crow was made to watch. To analyze, silently observing, seeing the unseen, and simply being perceptive, knowing where the enemy was. He would be blinded.

 

The way they began with Claire was simple. They placed her inside a dark room filled with speakers, and she wasn’t tied down at all. The room had no way for light to get in, so it  _ was _ completely dark. No light at all, and Claire was left to wander. For a few days, they left her in absolute silence. To anyone watching, it wouldn’t have made sense. If they were trying to deafen her, wouldn’t they subject her to loud noises?

 

No. Not yet. The only noises that she heard for those first few days was her own footsteps, and whatever food they were giving to her. She didn’t know what it was, but when she was hungry, she didn’t really care. She needed to stay alive. That’s what Claire knew.

 

By only a few days in, the lack of anything sensory aside from sound and touch had made her mind play tricks on her. Too little was happening, she couldn’t see anything, so her mind began to create things for her to see. The first thing that she saw was not human, but assumed a humanoid shape. It did not move, but simply seeing the eerie whites of the eyes was enough to make Claire scream.

 

Claire was hallucinating.

 

When the Azran realized this, they began to play on her fears. When they knew Claire was hallucinating, they would play a loud sound through one of the speakers near to her ears. That would make her flinch away, cowering not only from the hallucination, but  _ also _ from the sound.

 

Many of the hallucinations had begun as very vivid and dangerous looking creatures, but now they swapped between that and… hallucinations of Hershel. The Azran had realized that something she was seeing was calming her back down, even if it wasn’t there, so they began to play on that too. When Claire looked calmer, they surrounded her with sound, to the point where she felt like her ears were bleeding.

 

Seeing hallucination of Hershel didn’t calm her down anymore. In fact, it made her more panicked than before.

 

The Azran saw this as good.

 

Henry was no better. He, too, was placed in a dark room, but not completely dark. They had tied him up, and suspended him from the ceiling at a forty-five degree angle. He didn’t know why they had done that. All he knew was, he couldn’t move, he was in the air, and that  _ something _ was going to happen.

 

Just like with Claire, for a few days, there was nothing. A few days in, someone came into the room. Henry could only watch, panicked, as they raised themselves to his head level and wrenched his mouth open. Next, they pulled his tongue out, putting it onto short metal surface. Then, using a scalpel, they cut the tip of his tongue off.

 

Henry  _ screamed. _

 

The man who had cut the tip of his tongue off didn’t even react. Clearly, he had earplugs in, because he just continued on, taking the metal away from Henry’s mouth and leaving the room. Henry continued to scream, even starting to cry from the pain. He began to thrash against his restraints, crying out for  _ anyone _ to help him. No one came to help.

 

Henry never knew when they’d turn up to hurt him. It seemed spontaneous- though he had little grasp of time in the dark room- and sometimes, they didn’t even cut part of his tongue off. Occasionally, they would just stab into his tongue, push it back into his mouth and tape it shut until they next came in.

 

When this happened, Henry found that he either had to swallow the blood, or choke on it. At first, he thought he’d rather choke, however, because it couldn’t come out of his mouth, it  _ instead _ came out of his nose. Henry then decided it was better to swallow it, even if the taste sickened him.

 

Crow was the only one kept in a light room. Too light. It was clinical-white, and often, they blindfolded Crow, so that when it was taken off, it burned his eyes. Crow had also noticed something about the blindfolds changing. At first, they had been completely dry, but now he found they were wet. Soaked in something he didn’t know. It smelled of nothing, so at first, he had assumed it to be water.

 

Until it  _ really _ started burning his eyes, and the skin around them. That’s when he realized it wasn’t water at all, but  _ very _ dilute acid. He didn’t care what  _ kind _ of acid it was, he just knew that it fucking  _ burned _ . Since he was tied to a chair, he couldn’t do anything. He’d thrash against the ropes, but it never came to any result.

 

Every few days, they changed the blindfold over Crow’s eyes, replacing it with one soaked in stronger acid each time. He never made a sound about it. Never screamed. He only cried. He knew exactly what they were doing do him, and he  _ knew _ that when- and if- he was saved, his eyesight would be terrible.

 

If he could even see when this was all done.


	18. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUKE, SORRY EVERYONE'S DYING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set a long while before everything goes to hell, Hershel decides to get some of the Resistance to throw Luke a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, SOMETHING THAT ISN'T FULL OF TAG WARNINGS. FINALLY, SOME FLUFF.

Today was Luke’s birthday. Only he knew that, of course, as he’d done his best to keep it hidden. He didn’t want anything to happen, didn’t want to burden anyone else with planning something. After all, a birthday was just another day, right? And as Clive always said, they didn’t have any time to lose.

 

Unbeknownst to Luke, Hershel knew that it was his birthday. The night before, while Luke was sleeping, Hershel had visited everyone who he knew Luke thought important. First, he went to visit Clive, in Sector B. The man had scowled at Hershel for interrupting his work, but his demeanour quickly changed as soon as he knew it was to do with Luke.

 

Next, he went to Flora, in the infirmary. She had immediately been on board with helping throw Luke a surprise party. After all, she knew exactly how much a lot of the people in the Resistance needed a reason to smile.

 

Then, Hershel went to Claire. She was happy to help, too, somewhat wanting to help for Luke’s benefit, but also for Hershel’s. Claire had realized how much this might also mean to him as well.

 

From there, Hershel visited Angela- who he had asked to tell Randall when he returned, as he was on another of his wild adventures to graffiti London- and asked Henry to join them as well.

 

He also went to talk to the Black Ravens. As soon as Luke’s name had left Hershel’s mouth, Crow had been on board with the idea, followed by the rest of the Black Ravens.

 

Now, Hershel had a small army working tirelessly to organize a party before Luke awoke. Hershel, at first, had put Clive in charge- knowing how good he was with planning for raids- and Clive had actually frozen up.

 

“I… have never had a party in my life.”

 

That had been met with  _ outrage. _ Many of the Black Ravens started talking at once about how he was missing out, that nothing compared with a good birthday surrounded by friends. Before it could get any worse for Clive, Hershel sent him to watch Luke’s room, and make sure he didn’t wake up too early.

 

Since everything had begun a day before, they had at least twelve hours to work on it. Flora , Claire, Angela and Henry had taken matters of catering into their hands, trying to find whatever rations they could to at  _ least _ try make Luke a cake. The Black Ravens were working to decorate whatever they could with what little they had, and Hershel was organising everything- and waiting for Randall to return, too, so he could assist.

 

Within a few hours, everything was sorted and ready. Everyone was tired and slowly took their leave back to their own rooms for the night, except for Clive, who Hershel noticed was sleeping outside Luke’s room without a pillow. The metal grate floor had already imprinted on his face and hands, but he seemed to be peaceful.

 

Clive awoke early the next morning- scolding himself for falling asleep- and resuming his watch. He offered a thumbs up to Hershel as he walked past, and the same to the rest of the people involved in Luke’s party planning. 

 

When Luke awoke, Clive was outside his door, ready to greet him.

 

“Good morning, Luke. Have you slept well?”

 

“Huh…? Yes- but… why are you out here? Wouldn’t you rather be in Sector B?”

 

“Truthfully, I would normally, but not today.” Clive glanced in the direction of what they’d set up. “Would you walk with me?”

 

Luke glanced the same direction as Clive, a questioning look on his face. “Okay…?”

 

Clive smiled to Luke, and began to walk. Luke sort of wanted to ask Clive what all this was about- why he was waiting for him, why he had faint grate marks on his face… and what was going on. Surely he didn’t know it was his birthday…

 

As Clive pushed open the door to where they’d set the party up, there was a loud chorus of “Surprise!”

 

Luke looked around the room in  _ awe _ . He hadn’t had a party like this for… ages, really. Not since both his parents were still okay, which he only now realized was so long ago… Luke found that this put everything into perspective. He stood in the doorway, silently, unsure of what he should do.

 

“How did you… why did you…?” was all that left Luke’s mouth.

 

“Just because we’re working to fix the world doesn’t mean we can’t take a break to throw you a party.” Clive knew what he’d said went directly against what he normally believed, but he didn’t really care anymore.

 

It was Luke’s birthday.

 

“But- how did you know?!”

 

“Hershel told us.” Claire spoke now, glancing slightly at Hershel. “He knew it might mean a lot to you to celebrate, since you haven’t been able to for a while.”

 

“We put this all together for you, Pint-size.” Crow grinned and walked over to Luke, taking his hand and leading him into the room.

 

Luke was still astounded that this had even been done for him. 


	19. FUCK YOU LEON BRONEV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hershel and Descole lead a group into the depths of the Azran's base for torture. What they find is nothing but painful.

Hershel and Descole were leading the second group into the building holding the hostages. While Clive handled the upper floors with his group, the two brothers led their group underground. The fact they even  _ had _ these subterranean floors proved a lot- they’d planned this all out. Every door was more guarded than the last, and had stronger locks- locks harder to crack.

 

When the mission had begun, Descole was making easy work of the locks, but as they got further down, they were becoming even too much for Hershel. He wasn’t proud of how long it was taking him to solve the locks, it meant that the hostages were subject to even more pain, which he didn’t want.

 

The final lock, on what must have been ten floors down, required special clearance, but didn’t specify what kind.

 

“What does it want? A code? Facial recognition? Or what?” Descole seemed to be on edge as he looked over the door. “I just can’t figure it out!”

 

“Desmond- try to think clearer. Don’t rush yourself.” Hershel glanced backwards slightly, just checking if anyone was approaching.

 

“We need something else. Anything else. We need to find someone whos in control of this place and we need to use them to get in.”

 

“Emmy, do you have clearance here?” Randall glanced to Emmy, who was on the other side of the corridor.

 

“No. I was basically just sent as a spy, like when you were being controlled.” Emmy shook her head. “We’d need someone else, like-”

 

“Like me.” Leon Bronev strode down the corridor, pointing a shotgun at Hershel and Descole, the rest of his group spread out behind him, a gun to each head, at least. "This has been going on long enough, it's time to end this pathetic little rebellion once and for all!"

 

Then, there was a gunshot from behind Targent. Emmy reacted first, using the initial moment of surprise to get closer to Bronev and kick the gun from his hands. After that, the rest of the group seemed to react, aiming for fatal wounds on everyone but Bronev. When they were done, Descole strode forwards, picking Bronev up by his collar and dragging him over to the door.

 

“Now tell us how to open it.”

 

“It’s a clearance lock, you know that. Figure it out.” Bronev scowled.

 

Hershel stepped back, away from the bloodbath that was the corridor. He closed his eyes and began to think. What could it possibly be? What was Targent like? What were the  _ Azran _ like? What could they possibly do to make a clearance lock that didn’t take retinal scans, or facial recognition, or-

 

His thoughts were cut off by gunshots from higher in the building, and Emmy visibly jolted.

 

“What if that’s Luke-?” Emmy seemed to mumble to herself.

 

“I know the answer.” Hershel opened his eyes again, walking back over to the door. “It needs blood. A particular kind.”

 

“Sneaky.” Descole looked at the keypad to the door, indeed noticing dried blood from previous entries.

 

Then, he slammed Bronev’s face into it. Luckily enough, he was already bleeding. The door unlocked suddenly, and Badger and Nabby ran in, closely followed by Randall and Angela. Hershel seemed to hesitate, before going in himself, looking for Claire’s cell.

 

Emmy and Descole remained behind, making sure Bronev didn’t escape. Or, that’s what they wanted everyone to believe. Emmy had a few personal scores to settle with him, before she would get to the higher floors to make sure everyone was alright. Descole seemed very distant as Emmy left, his eyes, though hidden by his mask, clouded with emotion.

 

Hershel had ended up meeting up with the other four at the end of a corridor. They had seen three rooms on the way up, all with single notes on the door, and no one seemed to know who was in which.

 

One said “hear”, the next said “see”, and the last said “speak.”

 

They were closest to the “speak” door, and no sounds were coming through it.

 

“We should go in together. We don’t know who’s where, but they’re certainly down here.” Randall suggested, and Angela nodded.

 

“It would be for the best, yes.” Hershel reached for the handle to the “speak” door.

 

When he opened it, there was a terrible smell of old blood, and the sound of someone moving. Randall suddenly pushed past Hershel, looking at who was in the room in terror.

 

“Henry?! What have they done?!”

 

With that, Angela ran in too. Hershel considered leaving for the next door, but he needed to know what had happened to Henry. Angela, with a boost-up from Randall, managed to cut Henry down, and he fell on his hands and knees. They both crouched beside him, and Randall began softly asking what had happened.

 

Henry didn’t seem to reply.

 

“Layton, what do you think the signs on the doors mean?” Nabby looked at Hershel, who was deep in thought.

 

“I can’t say for sure. Randall, is Henry okay?”

 

Henry desperately pointed to his mouth, and as Angela looked at it, she  _ gasped. _

 

“They’ve- they  _ cut your tongue out! " _

 

That definitely made Hershel jolt.

 

“Then it’s as I fear. Nabby, Badger. We should check the next room. I fear that Crow is not in a good state.”

 

The three quickly made their way to the next room, and upon opening it, found Crow tied to a chair in a clinical-white room, a blindfold over his eyes. He said nothing, and Hershel left Nabby and Badger to it, going straight for the final room. Where Claire must have been.

 

Henry was mute, and his door had said speak. Speak no evil. Crow must have been blinded, so see no evil, and Claire?

 

He hated to think about it.

 

After practically kicking the door open- it had been sealed terribly well- he saw Claire curled up against a wall of speakers, looking at him with wide eyes. Both seemed to freeze, uncertain if what they were seeing was real. Claire slowly got to her feet, beginning to walk forward. Hershel didn’t move. He didn’t know if he could, almost knowing that he was right about what they had done.

 

Claire actually  _ ran _ to him, hugging him tightly and crying into his clothing. Hershel wasn’t sure if Claire could tell what he was saying, but he was quietly talking to her.

 

“It’s okay, Claire. I’m here. It’s okay. I’m here.”

 

That only made her cry harder. She seemed somewhat aware of how loud she could talk, and was whispering very softly.

 

“It’s you… you’re here…” Claire’s grip tightened slightly. “Hershel, you’re here…”

 

From behind Hershel, there was movement. Badger was holding Crow’s sleeve.

 

“Oi, Tophat! Where’s Pipsqueak?” Crow was looking wildly around the corridor.

 

“Further up, which is where we’re going.” Hershel turned slightly, and, taking hold of Claire’s hand, began to move towards the stairs again.

 

It was many floors up that they had to go, and with the three now-freed hostages, they felt somewhat unstoppable. Descole and Emmy seemed to have already left, and now, the eight of them began their ascent.

 

Hopefully, everything had gone fine up here. Hershel knew how well Clive could prepare, and was almost certain that it all would have gone to plan. Casualties, he couldn’t guess at. It could have been anything.

 

He, like the rest of the group, hoped that nobody had gotten hurt.


	20. WHY MUST WE BE IN PAIN AGAIN

The Resistance was weak. There was little in the way of people, and even less in the way of resources. Hunting for provisions was dangerous this early on, and they couldn’t afford to lose people. Hershel understood this. In fact, all of the Resistance understood it, but understanding didn’t fill empty stomachs.

 

Randall was pacing back and forth through Sector C, hands messing with his own jacket.

 

“We need to get something. Anything at all. Everyone’s hungry, and afraid to go out- it’s just not good. The whole Resistance will crumble if we don’t get anything!” Randall was saying. “We’ve all worked so hard- there’s so much we’ve done, and haven’t done- we just can’t afford that.”

 

“Yet we can’t afford to lose people either?” Henry asked, and Randall nodded.

 

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to send people out because… it’s just too dangerous.”

 

“We can’t all sit here and rot. I say some of us go out.” Descole had looked up from his hands, a frown on his face. “Hershel, you’re with me, come on.”

 

As Descole stood up, he grabbed Hershel’s hand and pulled him to a standing position.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re with me, we’re going to get provisions.”

 

“No! You two can’t go- it’s-!” Randall turned quickly, trying to reach out for Hershel

 

“Too dangerous?” Descole scoffed. “Tell me something that hasn’t stopped me before.”

 

Before Randall could even react, Descole had pulled Hershel along behind him, out of Sector C, and towards the exit.

 

\--

 

Descole seemed to have chosen perfect places to raid. No one had found them so far, and they had collected a large amount of provisions- enough to feed the Resistance for a good few days, maybe a week. If people hunted like this every few days, then it would solve most of their problems. Hershel didn’t understand why they didn’t plan like Descole had.

 

He also didn’t understand why they were going for more. They had enough by now, didn’t they?

 

“Des, why are we-”

 

“Shh, just this last one. This will be good, I’ve been watching it for a while.” he motioned to an open window on an upper floor. “I’ve been in here once or twice.”

 

Hershel went silent, and followed along behind Descole, who led him in through a gap in the bricks. The two slowly snuck around, taking what they could, until- Descole put a hand out across Hershel, looking at the surroundings.

 

“Somebody’s been here.”

 

From a few rooms over, there was the sound of movement.

 

“Someone’s  _ still _ here. I suggest you get out.” came a low voice.

 

“Two of us versus one of you. Back down or I’ll beat you down.” Descole frowned as he spoke.

 

“Tell me what you’re after.”

 

“Provisions.”

 

“More detail, fuckwit.”

 

“I’ll stab you for that!”

 

Descole stood up, and Hershel tried to call him back, but he went about, kicking in the doors of  _ all _ the rooms, looking for the mystery voice. When he couldn’t find him, he went back to Hershel.

 

“Stay near me. We’re checking through these rooms together.”

 

They stayed near each other, and there was no sign, until the final room. The two men walked fully inside, looking around at what was in the room. Hershel stayed close to the door, just in case their mystery man tried to attack them from behind, while Descole searched around the inside of the room- it appeared to be an alcohol storage, but all the alcohol was missing.

 

Hershel turned around to say something to Descole, and behind him, there was the sound of someone landing. As he turned back, something sliced through his arm, and something hit him in the chest, pushing him backwards.

 

Stood in the doorway was a man marred with cuts- no older than twenty- in a blue blazer and jeans, a waistcoat under it, all covered in dirt, a bloodied knife in one hand and a look in his eyes that could  _ kill. _

 

“I told you to  _ leave. _ ”

 

Hershel took a step back, and Descole stood beside him, a larger knife in his hand- a machete. The man seemed to glance at it, quirk his eyebrow slightly, before looking straight into Descole’s eyes.

 

It became obvious to Hershel that this man had taken the alcohol in this room, yet taken nothing else. Perhaps some medical provisions, but very little in the way of them, and certainly no food.

 

“You haven’t taken any food.” Hershel spoke before the man or Descole.

 

“I have enough.”

 

“Not with a gaunt face like that, you don’t.”

 

“Who are  _ you _ to decide if I’m looking after myself?” the man began to scowl, moving his knife slightly in warning.

 

Hershel suddenly remembered his arm, and he glanced down at it. The man took this glance to mean that he had something else on him. Expecting the worst, he took a step back.

 

“Gentlemen-” he nodded to them slightly, before slipping his knife back into his belt and running.

 

Descole had half the mind to run after him, but Hershel stopped him.

 

“We should get back now, Des.”

 

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

 

\--

 

When the two returned, Randall instantly called everyone into Sector C, and finally, everyone had a chance to eat. Hershel ate very little, and excused himself early. Claire, of course, noticed this, and followed him back to his room, stopping the door before Hershel could close it.

 

“Hershel? You’ve been acting odd since you came back. Is something wrong?”

 

Hershel was quick to deny this, waving his arm. “No! Nothing’s wrong. It’s just-”

 

“Is that blood?” Claire was looking at Hershel’s arm, which was crusted red with old blood, and still oozing. “Are you bleeding?”

 

Before Hershel could even think of an answer, Claire was in front of him, holding his arm out so that she could inspect it.

 

“Jacket. Off.”

 

Hershel nodded, taking off his black trenchcoat and letting Claire look at his arm. It wasn’t bleeding  _ too _ badly, but whoever that man was knew what he was doing.

 

“Downwards slice. Whoever was attacking you knew what they were doing.”

 

“How did you know someone attacked me?”

 

“It’s obvious. Nothing without power behind it could cut you like this.” Claire took a cloth from her bag and gently cleaned the wound up with antiseptic- Hershel winced slightly as she did so. “So who was it? Anyone you recognise? Was it the Government?”

 

“I don’t know who he was- he didn’t look like he was part of the Government. He was wearing a lot of dirty clothes, it looked like he’d been more controlled about what he wore ages ago. His blazer was dirty and so was his waistcoat and shirt- like he hadn’t washed for a while- and his knife was strange. It didn’t look like anything you’d expect to see- like maybe it was a tool knife, but whatever it was, it had one serrated edge, one sharp.”

 

Claire was listening intently, putting pieces of cloth over the cut and wrapping it tightly in bandages.

 

“He took basically nothing from where we were raiding. A few medical provisions, and all the alcohol he could carry.”

 

“Alcohol?” Claire echoed, looking at Hershel, now. “Whoever that man was, he  _ definitely _ wasn’t part of the Government. They’ve banned alcohol- so that means he must be…”

 

Hershel stayed silent, waiting for Claire to finish her musing.

 

“He must be homeless. Or- he believes the same ideals as the Resistance. Maybe he doesn’t know about it yet- or he’s afraid to look for us- Hershel! This could be an ally! Did you or Des even know he was in there?”

 

“Des figured it out because he knew the area. We couldn’t find him until he came down behind me and cut my arm open.”

 

“He’s perfect then! You  _ have  _ to tell Randall about him. If the Resistance had someone like him, then we’d be able to sneak about and find all the provisions we’d need!” Claire was smiling. “Hershel! The Resistance needs someone like this!”

 

Hershel was completely astounded. This man who attacked him seemed to Claire to be the perfect addition to the Resistance.

 

“I’ll talk to Randall about it, and we’ll see if he can convince him to join by showing off his street art.”


	21. LOOK ITS THIS BITCH AGAIN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While looking for more weaponry for the Resistance, Descole and Hershel stumble across a familiar face...

Randall hadn’t been able to go out at all, so Hershel and Descole had been sent out quite often. Every few days, as Hershel had expected. Each time they went out, Descole quietly made a bet.

 

“Bottle of gin says we’ll see the man from before.” he’d said this time, and Hershel had rolled his eyes.

 

“You’re caught up on seeing him.”

 

“I’m  _ curious _ , Hershel. He took nothing but alcohol and limited medical provisions, and looked like a  _ skeleton _ . Something’s up with him.”

 

“What do you mean “something’s up with him”? That’s a broad statement…”

 

“I can’t explain it. Something feels  _ odd _ about him, and I want to know what it is.”

 

Hershel left it at that, and the two quietly made their way around the city, looting like normal. Descole led Hershel about, and once again, the two managed to fill their backpacks with provisions- food and medical things were prioritized- but Descole still wanted something else.

 

“They have guns, Hershel, so we need them too.”

 

The two climbed carefully into a building that Descole was sure would have weapons- an old government storehouse. They stepped lightly, afraid that perhaps someone was guarding the area with something that could tear them down in an instant, but they saw nothing. But they heard something that they recognised.

 

A particular voice.

 

“If I took it, I’d be safer… but if I’m asleep it makes no difference…” it was saying, followed by a huff of annoyance.

 

Descole instantly walked to the source of the voice, no longer trying to be quiet. It sounded obvious that the man jumped upon hearing him, whatever was in his hands clattering to the floor. Hershel followed behind Descole, and, entering the room he was in, could see that he’d backed himself up to the stone walls, almost terrified.

 

He looked much worse than when they’d first seen him.

 

“You. You’re odd.” Descole said, tilting his head slightly.

 

“Odd-? Odd how?” he glanced to his side- to a drawer that looked like it’d been opened recently.

 

“You’re not part of the Resistance, are you?”

 

His eyes snapped back to Descole. “There’s a resistance?”

 

“There has been for a little while. A year or so-” Hershel began, and the man cut him off. 

 

“A  **_year?!_ ** And I had no fucking hope for all that time- where the  _ fuck _ were you?! What sort of fucking Resistance can’t protect people being shafted by the government on a daily basis?!” he was seething with rage. 

 

“I’m sorry- we’ve been having trouble recently, it’s not normally like this.” Hershel explained, and he calmed down just a little.

 

“I should hope not.”

 

“Why are you here, then? If you’re not with us.” Descole asked.

 

“To get a gun. Like you. I want to protect myself.” he answered. “And why can’t I work with you? What’s stopping me from joining the Resistance?”

 

“I’m sure Hershel wants an apology from when you cut his arm open.”

 

The man looked at Hershel with a confused glance, before back to Descole. “Fine. I’m sorry I cut your arm open. Thought you were going to kill me.”

 

“Accep-” Hershel tried to say, but Descole stopped him.

 

“That’s not much of an apology is it. Do you want forgiveness and to join the Resistance or do you want to rot out here?”

 

"I'm not the best at forgiveness, I'd much rather revenge.” He crossed his arms, looking away from Descole.

 

“Die then.” Descole shrugged, moving his arm to slice the man open.

 

He moved quicker than Descole, opening the drawer beside him and throwing a knife at Descole. Descole only just managed to deflect it with his machete, and the man pushed himself further against the wall, scowling and almost snarling.

 

“You’ll have to try harder than that to kill me, fluff-ruff.”

 

“ _ Fluff-ruff?! _ ” Descole lunged forwards, and the man jumped, kicking himself off the wall and aiming for Descole’s head.

 

Before Descole could slash the man open, Hershel pushed him to the side, meaning that instead, the man had kicked Hershel.

 

“Stop trying to  _ fucking _ kill me. I’m not your damn enemy.”

 

“What’s your name?” Hershel asked, trying to hold Descole back from lunging again.

 

“Call me Dove. For now.” Dove was close to the door, and the gun he had dropped earlier. “I am going to leave, and  _ you _ are not to follow me.”

 

As he reached down for the pistol, he heard Descole speak.

 

“Ironic, your name is Dove, yet you have no want for peace.”

 

Dove  _ scowled _ at Descole as he collected a couple magazines for his pistol. “Make no mistake, I want peace, but I can’t get it without being  _ violent _ .”

 

Then, Dove ran from the room. They could hear him leave the building, and Hershel turned to Descole.

 

“I won the bet, you owe me a bottle of gin.”

 

Descole then turned away from Hershel and towards the room, picking up a few pistols- semi-automatic ones- and magazines. Then, he found a rifle. He hoisted it onto his back, and grinned. Hershel picked up a simple pistol- he recognised it at an M1911, having seen it in some of the banned books- and a couple magazines of his own, while Descole collected as many bullets for the rifle as he could find.

 

Finally, after loading up on guns, the two made a move. They had to be careful as they left- if anyone saw Descole and his rifle, they would surely be caught. So, the two took to the alleyways and side-streets, making their way back to base.

 

Once they had returned, Descole started handing out whatever pistols he had, while Hershel instantly went to talk to Randall.

 

“You need to go out as soon as possible and find the man we’ve been seeing. He told us we can call him Dove. Look for anyone with that name. Do something that could catch  _ his _ attention particularly.”

 

“What did he look like?”

 

“Tired and  _ gaunt _ . Has a blue blazer, black waistcoat, and jeans. Torn a little. All of it very dirty. He wants to join the Resistance.”

 

“I’ll look for him. Now I know what I’m looking for, this should be easy.”

 

“Be careful he doesn’t attack you. If he feels threatened, he won’t hesitate to attack.”

 

“Noted. You should go get yourself to the infirmary. Your face is bruising.”

 

Hershel hadn’t even remembered that Dove had kicked him. Nodding and smiling to his friend, Hershel left, heading towards the infirmary.

 

Claire would definitely be happy to know that he’d found out the man’s name.


End file.
